


Please Don’t Take Off My Mask

by godtiermeme



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Alternate Universe - Human, Detective Noir, Drama, Dubious Science, F/F, Gen, Human Experimentation, Humanstuck, Illustrations, M/M, Mystery, Past Character Death, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-02-28 07:59:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 42,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18752272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: When the premier private investigator and owner of Skaia city's greatest PI firm, Problem Sleuths, Karkat Vantas, takes on a new case, he expects it to be simple. He's to find and capture a rogue android, a literal lost experiment, for a certain benefactor, Doctor Scratch. He assumes this is just another low-profile case to keep the coffers stocked, but, as it turns out, this is no simple person-finding. This is a conspiracy.





	1. Prologue | Revealing Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from [Beneath the Mask](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=suOoYogz_f0), from _Persona 5_. Yes, I started another goddamned fic. WHEEHOO!!!! I'm inventing the cybergothic noir genre. This is inspired by a mixture of things, including _Metropolis_ (2001, based on the work by Osamu Tezuka and directed by Rintaro), _L.A. Noire_ (2011), and Watanabe's _Cowboy Bebop_ (1998), _AKIRA_ (directed by Katsuhiro Otomo, 1988), among other things. I have a very rough idea of the outline, but it's otherwise just me churning out shit whenever. Hopefully I finish this.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **19 March 2130,** I have taken yet another stupid case. Some clueless fucker, Scratch, managed to lose his doctorate thesis project. He said the matter is very urgent, and that the project is an android that will “revolutionize the way we interact with the world, how we understand death, itself”. Yeah. Great fucking joke. I'm laughing my fucking tits off.
> 
> This won't take long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as stated above, this chapter title is a continuation of the lyrics from _Beneath the Mask_. the chapter summaries are meant to be from karkat's point of view, as written in a diary.

The day of March 19th is no different from any other early spring day in the city of Skaia. The sky, weighted down by drooping, rotund clouds, is the same darkened grey as it has been for a solid week. The rain pours down relentlessly, forming increasingly large pools of water up and down the streets, overwhelming shoddy drainage channels and pouring inside, through any open doors it might come across. It is, as many newscasters are so eagerly proclaiming, only the third of many upcoming floods for the city. A city known for all its winding, paved streets; poor drainage; and litter-clogged sewers. Insurance peddlers, offering both legitimate and fraudulent discounts, heckle passerby, pushing into their faces pamphlets for increased water damage packages.

People shuffle down narrow sidewalks, their heads down, their eyes glassy and unfocused. They work as they always have—day in and day out, the same tedium, the same number crunching, the same desks—and they speak little. Here, there’s a grunt, when an older man steps a bit too far into an younger gentleman’s space. A huff of frustration accompanies a brusque shove.

Amidst all this, allowing the crowd to pass him by, is a singular man, his brows knit together as he considers his newfound case. Should one trace his heritage, they would find that he is descended from India; most of his family lived there, up until the 21st century, when they emigrated to America. It’s evident in his appearance—his distinct nose, medium brown skin, and loosely curled black hair. But it doesn’t really matter; in this age, the 22nd century, he is thoroughly American. His given name was Shaan; he prefers to go by Karkat. He stands amidst the drab rush of every day, his stocky frame huddled beneath a tattered umbrella, and stares blankly at his phone, on which his newest job is displayed.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” he mutters to himself, his head shaking, “I’m a private investigator. I don’t have time to go chasing someone’s overdue doctorate thesis. Androids are everywhere, they’re all somewhat intelligent. They can find their own way home...”

Behind his ear, from an implant long since placed there for technological convenience, comes the voice of a colleague of his. “Now, Karkat, every job is important to someone. You did say that the file stated this Android is unlike any other, for whatever reason. I caution you to be open to considering this a serious case.” The voice has a soft quality to it, but it’s powerful. “I must return to my own business matters, however, so this is goodbye, for the time being.”

“Yeah,” grunts Karkat. He steps through a door, into a wood-paneled hellscape of a bar, and shakes some of the rain from his umbrella. It falls into a fairly sizeable puddle, the middle of which is marked with a caution sign. “I’ll catch up later, Kanaya.”

“Indeed. I look forward to it!” There’s a click, and the call ends.

Karkat, meanwhile, has already moved onto the more pressing task. He stares intently at a man who, by most outward appearances, is as real and corporeal as he, himself, is. This man’s skin is pale, yet his cheeks have the faintest of pink tints to them. His hair appears soft, and the color is a sandy, light blond. He’s tall; if he was standing, rather than sitting at a bar, Karkat would assume that he’d be around six feet. He has no outward tells of artificial life, save for a single giveaway: a singular, unassuming accessory, akin to a small hearing aid, situated behind his right ear. According to the file, this is his control interface. With appropriate tools and connections, one can theoretically shut down what appears to be a living, breathing man.

For the sake of professionalism, Karkat forgoes thinking about the topic any longer. Rather, he approaches the bartender, surreptitiously showing off his investigator’s badge. He is informed that the man in question came in early this afternoon, just after the bar opened, and claimed his name was Dave Strider. He had sat at the bar, in the same seat he currently occupies, and has, over the course of the past few hours, grown increasingly despondent.

“I don’t... How am I here?” inquires the android, as if to prove some sort of point. “I _shouldn’t be_ here.”

“Yeah, well that seems to be a question a few other bastards have, too,” Karkat announces. He settles into the seat beside ‘Dave’. From this vantage point, he sees just how uncannily realistic this android is. The skin moves with unparalleled realism, and the gestures are true to life, but the eyes lack depth. It’s a disturbing mix, to see such emotional anguish, yet be met with empty eyes.

Still, the man persists, continuing his plea, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’d just like to go home, okay? No one seems to be able to help me with that, so maybe you, Mr. Gruff, Grizzled Noir Asshole, could help with that?” Beneath a hum of faint static is a voice that overflows with pure confusion, like that of a child. “Just tell me how to get back to Houston, and I’ll be on my goddamned merry way.”

Karkat balks at the comment. He laughs. “Houston hasn’t existed for thirty years! It’s gone! Underwater! It’s been a verifiably virile ocean life resort for thirty goddamned years. What sort of shit joke is this?”

“I don’t understand. How can it be gone? It was fine!” insists the man, his brows now furrowed. He wrings his hands together. His eyes dart anxiously around the room.

“Well, humans are naturally stupid creatures. We meddle with what we have no damned business with, and, now, we’ve gone and fucked the entire planet with a spiked mace of pollution and filth. It’s nature’s way of telling us to fuck off.” This is as gentle as Karkat can get, at least with this literal stranger, who he’s supposed to be convincing to follow him to a holding area. “The point is that Houston is gone, and you’re talking out of your festering ass to a chorus of people, who, quite frankly, couldn’t give less of a fuck if you paid them.”

Silence. The android stares ahead, unblinking, for several seconds. His jaw tenses. There comes from its core a high-pitched screech. Then, without any sort of fanfare or, for that matter, any further warning, the man slumps forward, motionless, onto the counter. A displaced glass shatters as it hits a beer tap at the perfect angle, and a stray shard leaves a superficial cut on the man’s arm. He bleeds.

Karkat, in return, freezes.

This is more than what he was told. This is beyond a basic rogue android return. He doesn’t know what it is, not now, but he knows it’s something he probably shouldn’t be discussing with anyone, and most definitely not with the shady British fellow, who placed the job request.

He tips the barkeeper generously, shoulders the unconscious man, and drags him back to his apartment. According to the job request, he is to allow him to stay for two months, until the client can come and collect him. Now, Karkat is reconsidering this.

Androids don’t bleed. Not any on the market today, and, as far as Karkat is concerned, not any in the foreseeable future. So, why, then, is this one?

He is hesitant to investigate, keenly aware that he might just be dealing with a real human. Nonetheless, he gathers what little information he can from a cursory inspection.

Several things catch his attention. To begin, this so-called android is breathing; his chest rises and falls, despite the total absence of any further input or outward signs of the mind being awake. His skin is warm to the touch, and it shows evidence of past scars, including a long incision, which seems to circle his hairline, looping back to the control unit. Tattooed onto his wrist is what Karkat can only assume to be identifying information: “TG413, HiveMind Project, Doctor Scratch”. But, above all this, the thing that makes Karkat’s blood run cold is exactly what pushes it through his own veins; this so-called android has a pulse. His heart beats, drumming out the same rhythm as any other human.

He takes interest, too, in a ripped out page of a journal, which is tucked into the pocket of the man’s tattered trench coat.

“Experiment TG413, highly intelligent, cunning, headstrong. Original name was Dave Strider, from Houston, Texas. Data compiled from Mindscape Memorial database, free of charge, used as experimental early upload, 206X. Failed experiment, to be destroyed immediately; Experiment TT126 is more suitable for presentation.”

On the back of the paper, scrawled in the same flourishing script, is an address. When Karkat looks it up, it leads to a funeral home.

Later, as Karkat prepares for bed, he hears a loud thud. It is immediately followed by a groan of pain, and it leads him down the hall of his cramped apartment, to the stranger laying on his floor.

“Where am I?” asks Dave.

“City of Skaia, Skylark Highrise Rentals, apartment 3405,” Karkat says. He kneels down, beside the man on his floor, and raises a brow. “Do you not remember anything?”

“I woke up in some bastard’s basement, knocked him out with a stray brick, and stole this piece of paper,” shrugs Dave, holding aloft the scrap of paper from before. “I got absolutely slammed at some random bar, and I...” here, he stops. His voice sputters into silence, and his eyes are locked onto a blank spot on the wall, now occupied by a lifelike hologram of a modestly sized antique ship’s wheel. “Your television just fuckin’ disappeared.”

“Yeah?” scoffs Karkat. “It does that. I wasn’t using it. Why leave it as a television?”

“Where the fuck did it go!?”

“Room 3405, television on,” is the command. The result is the abrupt disappearance of the wheel and the reappearance of a high definition screen, the size of which can be altered at will, by either gestural or vocal commands. “It’s not that fucking huge. Hidden televisions have been out for years,” Karkat concludes.

Dave nods. It’s a slow nod, the sort someone does when they’re barely scraping by brainpower-wise. It ends with another high-pitched screech, and the ultimate collapse of Dave Strider, who falls back, against the sofa he’d been leaning on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> theories are also welcome, just as a gauge of how mysterious this is. **UPDATE:** I've added some art! you can visit my art blog [here](https://tt40art.tumblr.com/post/184927093954/another-homestuck-sketch-this-one-of-a-detective).


	2. Life is just a dream, you know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **20 March 2130:** Work has been slow. Maybe expanding the company was a shitty idea, maybe it's nice having some goddamned free time once in a while. Who knows? I sure don't. I'm bored, and, now, I'm trapped in my apartment with some absolutely off-the-wall idiot android. Person? I don't know, and I'm not about to be the one who dissects his insufferable ass to find out. All I know, and all I _want_ to know is that I need to keep him here for at least two months, then he's Scratch's problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from [Blue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=03qBqP2I4p8), from _Cowboy Bebop_ , by The Seatbelts. The album this is off of can be called either _Cowboy Bebop: Blue_ or _Cowboy Bebop, OST 3_. The painting referenced is Henri Rousseau's [_La Bohémienne endormie_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Sleeping_Gypsy).

As the sun rises over the towering, jagged horizon, dotted, as it is, with high-rise buildings and massive superstructures, the building turns. Or, rather, the floor Karkat is on, floor thirty-four, turns. It rotates, slowly, so that each occupant gets a nice view of the sunrise. It's Karkat's turn, now, and he watches it, as he always does, lounging back in his armchair. It's an antique, a long-defunct brand known as “La-Z Boy”.

No one makes furniture like the chair he sits in. Now, most furniture is multifunctional. With a verbal command, or the press of a button, any seemingly hardwood or steel table can rearrange itself into a seat. The higher end models, such as the ones dotted around Karkat's living room, even come with the ability to restructure itself into comfortably cushioned lounging surfaces. This antique chair, however, remains the most comfortable seat. It's soft, yet supportive, and its reclining feature makes it the perfect place to drink a cup of coffee in the morning.

The news drones on in the background, as it always does. “Be sure to wear your masks today, it'll be a smoggy one out there,” announces the eternally cheerful weatherman, Perd Hapley. “Smog levels are hanging in there, around 90%, so limit your outdoor work. All construction work has been ceased in the city. Your temperature will be somewhere around 89 degrees. And, now, to...” As Karkat's attention wavers from the news, and settles upon reading the news, instead, his home automatically adjusts. The screen disappears. Today, to match his mood, the decoration in its place is a whimsical, but oddly haunting painting, of a lion standing behind a sleeping woman.

 _The Marmaduke_ is the local paper, and, while it's known for impeccable investigative reporting, Karkat is far more interested in their daily crossword. It is projected in front of him, floating in space, as if on a screen, yet semi-translucent. He uses his finger to write answers out, drawing them in the air.

Thirteen across. Awareness of one's being. Nine letters.

As Karkat mulls this clue over, he hears a noise. The soft rustling of covers, followed by the sound of approaching footsteps. With a flick of his wrist, he minimizes the crossword, and stores the tiny cube-shaped projection module in his pocket. “You again? What? You want to faint some more?”

“Who are you?” Dave asks, his face the perfect image of confusion. “Where am I?”

Karkat frowns. He spins his recliner around, so as to face the android, before he responds, “Do you not remember anything from yesterday? Nothing!?”

Dave shakes his head. He pulls the crumpled page from his pocket, studies it, and offers a look of complete disconnect. The device behind his ear flashes periodically; first, the light is red, then, orange. “Programming is faulty, please check data logs,” he announces, his voice monotonous. “Error code C, one-five-two. Please check— _AH! FUCK!_ ” The final words are delivered as if from a different person, in a voice smothered with drawling vowels and dropped consonants. It's as if something has clawed a window to freedom, but can't quite fit through the new opening. _“Who the fuck are you!?”_ he demands, now glaring pointedly at Karkat.

“I...” In a rare occurrence, Karkat finds himself at a loss for words. Even after all the strange things he's seen, he can't parse what's happening in front of him. “My name is Karkat Vantas, private investigator. I run the Problem Sleuth firm, of... uh...” his voice trails into nothingness.

Dave, meanwhile, twitches. His pupils dilate rapidly, revealing a small pinpoint of red light at the center. The monotone returns, and the southern accent fades. “Activating personality suppression protocol. Process begins in three... Two... _NO!_ Jesus... fuckin’...” He staggers backwards, hands pressed to his temples, and slumps against the wall. “It's killing me,” he mutters, his voice returning to what might be normal. “It's trying to kill me.” He staggers to his feet. The red light at the center of his pupils now grows in size, to the diameter of a drinking straw. His movements are odd, as if his limbs are actively fighting gravity, yet he lurches towards Karkat, and grabs onto the collar of his grey suede bathrobe. The grip is tight, as if the other man is holding on for dear life, afraid of falling into an unending precipice. “Don't let it kill me, dude. Please. I don't want to die. Not again. _I can't die again._ Don't make me go back there.”

Now, Karkat is dumbfounded. His otherwise placid morning is shattered, as is his professionally cultivated, steely composure. “Again? Dave, what do you mean, _again_?” The android's grip is inhuman, now. Karkat can't move it, nor can he do anything to coax it away from him. Nails dig into pale skin, until blood is drawn, and Karkat, who is understandably unable to come up with anything logical to say, manages little more than a weak, “My robe... That was... expensive...”

When Dave speaks, his voice is once more that of an ambivalent machine. “Operation aborted. Error code C, one-five-three. Sentience levels exceeding ninety percent, critical failure of system.” His pupils contract, concealing the red light, until it is little more than a pinprick against an expanse of a pair of soulless black camera lenses. “Enacting control protocol S. Please stand back.”

Everything seems to happen at once. “Dave? _Dave?_ ” Karkat has spent his entire career acting against his instincts; he's suppressed his urge to help, no matter the individual, but something about what's happening now overrides this. Right now, his desire to help burns within him like a wildfire, until it hurts to be a passive bystander. “Dave, dammit, what the fuck is happening? Hello!?”

Dave continues speaking, his voice droning over Karkat's demands for clarification. “Three...”

_“What the actual hell is happening!?”_

“Two...”

“Who are you?”

“One...”

“ _WHAT_ ARE YOU!?” Karkat bellows.

At the same time, a yell of pain escapes the alleged android. His back arches, and his fingers curl into tight fists. Sweat beads at his brow and, after a few seconds, he slumps to the floor, his breathing ragged. A voice, which, upon closer inspection, is now no longer in unison with his mouth, rises from his throat. It's garbled and laden with static, yet it's recognizably the same dispassionate synthetic tone as before. “Electric shock applied. Unit reset in progress.”

It's impossible for Karkat to remain an indifferent bystander in this case. After seeing what he has, it seems his duty, as a human, to help, to reach out to another. Alas, his resources are limited. This case was labeled as top secret; he is not to divulge any information to anyone, even within his own company.

For the first time since beginning his career as an investigator, six years ago, he breaks his contract. He calls the only person he knows with the knowledge to help. He is promised aid by the next day. Until then, he remains on high alert, guarding the once again defunct man, who he has laid out on his sofa.

* * *

**21 March 2130:** This shouldn't be real. This shouldn't happen. I'm a private investigator, for fuck's sake! I'm not some sort of nanny. I'm not some fuck-all Joe's valet, or butler, or whatever the fuck this Scratch bastard thinks I am. This isn't my problem. I shouldn't _make_ it my problem, but I am. It's who I am, and I hate it. With every fiber of my godawful, hell-bent being, I hate it.

Sollux Captor is a longtime friend and employee of Problem Sleuth's cyber unit. He's an elite hacker, a computer whiz, and all-around technological genius. He's also, admittedly,a massive nerd. His stature is a lanky one, and he stands a few inches taller than his friend. His skin is tan; his black hair, straight; and his canines oddly pointed. When he speaks, his voice carries a heavy lisp. “Where did you find this sucker, KK?” he asks, addressing his boss by a childhood nickname. He hunches over the unconscious man, thick brows knit together, and shakes his head.

“I can't tell you that,” Karkat says. He keeps his side facing Sollux; the less eye contact he makes, the easier it is for him to speak in nothing but boldfaced lies. “Look, just tell me what the fuck is up with this android. It's nothing _I've_ ever seen.”

“I mean...” Sollux chews his lip and rubs his softly rounded, stubble-covered chin. “I guess I could classify this as an android. He's more machine than man. All his limbs are cybernetic. This weird little control panel is wired to his nervous system,” as if Karkat needed further explaining, Sollux points to the small device, behind Dave's ear. A wire juts from it now, and it's connected to Sollux's holographic display, which currently occupies the majority of Karkat's living room. “These readings are incredible, though. You're right, this one's unique. It shows awareness and consciousness.”

“Look, Sollux, that's great and all, but I'd rather this thing not keep dropping into a heap on my floor, okay? Just cut to the point. What do you mean by saying you _could_ classify this as an android? Are you saying that everything else is...?”

The look of wonder on Sollux's face fades, replaced, instead, with one of cold awareness. “This is a human body. I mean, I'm not cutting it open, but I suspect the organs are real, too. I wouldn't know. Synthetic organs have come a long way, so I probably wouldn't be able to tell, anyhow, but this guy? He's real. At least, his body is. Someone's fucked up something, and, without some sort of thorough exam, I can't say what. But, KK, I'm going to be real with you: whatever this is, wherever you found it, I'd put it back.”

“I can't just fucking drop this homeless cybernetic abomination in the street,” Karkat hisses, “Do you know what sort of PR that would net us? We'd be the chewing gum on the finely hammered asses of everyone's gaudy bronze statues. People would use us a trash cans for the rest of our natural lives. I can't just...” He shakes his head. “He said something about error codes. C-152. C-153. What do those mean.”

Gestural inputs from Sollux scroll through wall-length codes. His yellow-brown eyes scan the document, the edges of his eyes sometimes wrinkling at the sight of something particularly interesting. After some time, he pauses. He looks to Karkat, reading aloud, “Error C dash one-five-two. Faulty programming, sentient interference. Error C dash one-five-three, sentient shutdown aborted, awareness reaching critical levels.” Again, thin fingers rub against an unshaven face. “Whatever sentience is inside this thing, it's coming out.”

“WELL FUCKING JESUS,” Karkat snaps, baring his teeth, “Without your wise input, your invaluable and omniscient deductive skills, I never would have guessed this gob-smacking conclusion. Tell me some more outlandish ideas you might have. Let them pour over me, like the hottest lava you can find, until I'm goddamned dead.”

Sollux laughs. It's a nasal sound, a series of snorts and snickers, that Karkat is used to. Normally, it calms him; today, it puts him on edge. “I need to write that one down. That was good.” He continues flicking through the data on the screen, sometimes altering things, and sometimes fixing small errors. “This is a messy job. Whoever did this is trying too hard to suppress the unit's innate awareness. You want me to undo that? It's causing a lot of recursive errors.”

“If those are what makes this bastard keep pulling a potato sack impression on my finely polished faux marble floors, what do you fucking think I want?”

“Loud and clear, boss,” responds Sollux.

After about an hour, much of it spent in tense silence, the man minimizes the display. He pockets his cube. “I've disabled what I could, but not everything. Seriously, KK, put this back where you found it. Whatever it is, it isn't good.”

“He... uh... said his name was Dave,” Karkat mutters, feeling embarrassed to even mention it. “Thanks for the help, Sollux. We'll meet for beers later, okay? My treat.”

After rolling his eyes at Karkat's commentary on the man's name, Sollux nods. A mischievous grin spreads across his face, placing his pointed canines in plain sight. “Oh, you know I'll take you up on that offer, KK.”

The two shake hands, and Sollux departs.

Karkat, meanwhile, returns inside. He sits back down, in a rounded cocoon-like seat, situated next to the sofa. He resumes his duties, watching the man for any sign of life, until his eyelids grow heavy, and his mind swims with possibilities, each more unsettling than the last. He falls asleep in the same seat, with his arms folded across his chest, and his mind a tumultuous, frothing sea of disconnected thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Now updated with art![Here's the image on my art blog!](https://tt40art.tumblr.com/post/185299577029/just-another-random-homestuck-sketch-if-you-like)**


	3. Fragments of our memories survive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **22 March 2130:** I've hired an investigator of my own. Kanaya is now working quietly to obtain information on this Scratch person. He seems like the average overzealous academic. Talks big, but doesn't do shit. He's got nothing notable to his name, and his only publication is some book about sentience and the pitfalls of that. And, really, what's groundbreaking there? We already know robotic sentience is a terrible idea. That's not some sort of revelation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from Minako Obata's [There'll Never Be Goodbye](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FpVbk9PTJs4), from _Metropolis_ (2001).

The next time Karkat sees Dave, the cyborg—a far more apt description, perhaps—is pacing anxiously around his living room. He's removed his tattered overcoat, which has been discarded on the sofa, and it's now readily apparent that his extremities have been enhanced and, in some places, replaced. Wires are embedded in his skin, running the length of his arms, and his right arm has been entirely replaced with a mid-tier prosthetic. The hand of this artificial arm is covered in fake skin, but the rest, up to about six inches below his shoulder, is covered by clear plastic, allowing easy access and viewing of the inner workings.

When he notices Karkat's approach, Dave jumps. He staggers back, barely avoiding falling over by catching onto a bookshelf. “You...” He pulls out one of his host's business cards, likely found while exploring the space, before speaking once more, “You're Karkat?”

In return, Karkat folds his arms across his chest. “Yeah. That's my name. And yours is Dave, right?”

There's a brief flash of confusion on Dave's face, but it disappears quickly. When he speaks, his voice is soft. His posture is loose, but the nervous movement of his eyes indicates that he's not comfortable. “Dave Strider. My name was Dave Strider.”

Karkat quirks his brow. “ _Was_? What does that mean?”

Dave shrugs. He lowers his head and sits down, picking silently at the fabric of his shirt. “Don't mean nothing,” he mumbles. “My head feels clearer, now. Like someone took all the damned cotton out of my ears.” There's a long pause, filled only with the sounds of whirring gears. Then, unexpectedly, Dave concludes his statement, “Thank you.”

“And how did you know it was me?”

Another shrug. “Just a hunch.” Looking at him now, Karkat can't help but feel as if Dave looks like a lost child. There's an uncanny innocence about him, but it's tampered with a sense of displacement. It's as if a man from a hundred years ago was suddenly dropped into the world. “It's all I can do, really. Think. Ever since I woke up, that's all I do. It keeps me from feeling.”

Karkat, noting how disinterested Dave is in his surroundings, takes a moment to study the man. He approaches carefully, looking his skin over and trying to piece together what he can. Without the collar of his jacket, it's now obvious that he has a synthetic spine; it's the color of brushed steel, and the status is shown in the pulsating lights running along its length. Right now, they glow green. He inches closer, to inspect it further, only to be startled by a sudden turn.

Dave spins around, so as to face Karkat. He meets his gaze. “Why?” he asks, his voice strangely heavy. There's a depth to his words, one that Karkat is certain he can't understand. “Why has this happened to me? Why was this done to me?”

Now, Karkat's interest peaks. After pouring himself a cup of coffee, he settles onto the sofa. He tries his best to keep his voice from sounding as gruff as it usually does; he's sure he fails, miserably. “What? What are you talking about?”

“I can access the entire world with my mind,” Dave says, his words rushed, as if he fears someone is listening, “But I can't... I don't remember anything. I was... It was so nice. Warm, y'know? Warm and familiar, and, suddenly, I'm here.” He shakes his head and rubs his eyes. As he does this, he spots the scabs on his left palm. He runs the fingers of his false hand over them, only to furrow his brows. “It's so cold here. I...”

On a whim, Karkat reaches out. He places his hand on Dave's shoulder.

The man shudders. “I've forgotten what it's like to feel another person... It's... It's kind of nice.” In spite of his words, he pushes away the display of kindness. “Enough about me. Who're you?” Again, he produces the business card from his pocket. “Private investigator? My online search shows you're one hell of a dude. You're not much older than me. Twenty five, and you already own your own damned company! What a dude.”

It's a startling shift. It takes a moment for Karkat to recover from the emotional whiplash. When he does, he offers little more than a stiff nod. He's never been fond of speaking about his work; he's seen enough in this job. “Yeah. Thanks for the compliment. Why?”

“Dunno. You seem nice. I figure I'll stick with you.” As he speaks, Dave pulls a pen from his pocket. He spins it idly between his fingers.

“Well, then, tell me about yourself,” urges Karkat.

Dave's reply is simple. “I can't. I... My mind's blank as a sweet, freshly born babe's flawless, little bald head. I know my name. I know that I'm here. I know that I can hear my heart beating in my fuckin‘ head. I dunno, man, it's just a damned blur. Just, fuck, let's slam that motion blur on everything.”

“Nothing? You don't know anything?”

“Nope. Know my name, know I'm here, know I exist. Already said that shit, man. Come on, keep up.”

A low growl from Karkat serves as the prelude to his reply. Though he's vaguely annoyed by the comment, he maintains a professional, personable outward persona. “Okay, well, can you explain to me how you got out of the lab?”

“Oh, that place?” Dave laughs. “Absolute dump, needs a huge makeover. Some bald bastard kept me locked in a cage, but I hit him on the head with a brick a few days ago. I think he's still alive, but he was out cold. I took a paper out of his little book, then ran. What more is there to say?”

“What did he do to you there?”

“I... I don’t want to say. It was painful. Is that the word I want? Pain?” Dave looks to Karkat, as if for guidance, as he continues, “I’m... this body isn’t mine. It’s not... It looks like me, but it isn’t me.”

Now beyond the point of containing his frustration, Karkat slams his hand against the nearby coffee table. “FUCK! Quit spewing cryptic filth from your gaping maw and just say something in normal goddamned words. What do you MEAN!?”

Dave recoils from the sudden noise. His breathing hastens; his pupils dilate. He’s afraid, but his voice doesn’t show it. “I don’t know, myself, dude. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s happened to me, why I’m here, or who dredged up my memories. I’m a free-floating consciousness, drifting, like some sort of fucking dust ball. I wasn’t meant to be here, now, in this place. Do you... Here.” He waves his hands, and a hologram of the world appears before him, projected from a pinhole of light in his left pupil. He spins the globe, zooms in, on the long-since-flooded ruins of Houston, and declares, without hesitation, “This was my home. This is where I was born. It’s gone, now, but...” He zooms in, until a high quality render of the sea floor is visible. He flies through the map with ease, stopping at the crumbled ruins of a concrete and steel tower. “I lived here, at the top of this fuckin’ phallic shit.”

Karkat is incredulous, but he keeps his thoughts on the matter sealed away. “The world has changed. How much? I don’t know. It depends on when—”

“2060,” Dave interjects. “I died in 2060.”

“Elaborate.” It’s a demand, not a suggestion.

And the reply is spoken in a voice devoid of any feeling, as if the facts being stated are as casual as saying how many clouds are in the sky this morning. “I was murdered. In 2060, I died. It wasn’t... People say it hurts to die, that you should be afraid of it, but it wasn’t too bad. Not for me, at least. It was real quick. I was scared, then I wasn’t. Blink your eyes, and everything you’d lived for is meaningless.” Surprisingly, Dave offers a small smile. “I don’t know why I remember that all of a sudden, right now. I’m dead. I should be dead, but I guess I ain’t, now, so what’s the point?”

By now, Karkat’s mind is revolting. There’s an active need to understand what’s happening, to prove something about these outrageous statements is fake. He opens his own computer, rapidly searching the Internet, and, sure enough, there it is. In an old headline, as plain as day, Dave is listed as one of several murder victims.

If Karkat weren’t sitting, he surely would be, now. “I... How? You can’t...”

“I know about as much as you know,” Dave says. “So... I guess it’s only up from here.”

 

Later, several hours after their first truly coherent (or, rather, as coherent as it can be) exchange, Karkat stares at the projection of the news article from before. Unlike last time, he decides to actually read the article. “Twin Murder Victims Identified, Killer Still at Large”. The date is listed as December 3rd, 2061. The author is listed as N. Valentine, though that particular fact doesn't really matter.

“Investigators have announced that the remains of two murdered individuals, found on December 3rd of last year, have been identified. The victims were biological siblings, though, strangely, they have different last names. Dave Strider, 23, was a worker at the nearby OneStop gas station. The other victim, Rose Lalonde, 25, was a librarian at the Casey Memorial Data Center.

“Authorities have also released some important information about the victims. Both victims were murdered in the same manner. A single shot to the chest instantly killed the individuals, but, interestingly, the brains of both individuals had been removed. Lead investigator, Sunsaku Ban, released a statement this morning, in which he noted that both the male and female had been cosmetically reconstructed following the removals. The suspect is thus thought to be an experienced surgeon.

“Police are appealing to the public for information.”

 _“Strange,”_ Karkat thinks. _“Fucking strange.”_

Opening his personal planner, a small device on his wrist, similar to a watch, he makes a note to look into these killings. For now, however, he has to attend to another case, albeit one that's nowhere near as intriguing as the one he's currently embroiled in.


	4. Is there a meadow in the mist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **23 March 2130:** It doesn't make sense. Nothing about this entire fucking debacle makes any goddamned sense. I could write an entire compilation of cases, pages and pages long, that make more sense than this, and some of them were never even solved. It's driving me up the wall. I can't make head or ass of this thing, but, the more I learn, the less sense it makes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The version of [Skylark](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q8mJFbcfg-M) I've linked is from 1942, by Glenn Miller.

Kanaya Maryam is a tall woman. Her figure is slender and elegant, the sort of form one would expect from fine art. Her skin is dark, like the color of the night sky, but her eyes are a brilliant shade of jade green. If one were to pass her by, it would be easy and understandable for her to be mistaken for a work of art. And, at this very moment, she is sitting across from her long-time friend and boss, Karkat. She sips a cup of steaming tea, eyeing her conversational partner, curiously. “As I understand it, Scratch is a neurosurgeon and robotics enthusiast,” she says. Her voice is soft, but commanding; backing it is a slight accent, one that elongates the vowels and softens hard consonants. She slides a small panel across the table, the type that displays information from a connected drive, and smiles.

“A neurosurgeon?” Karkat snorts. His brows are furrowed, and his eyes are focused on the panel before him. He scrolls through the accumulated files, his confusion growing with every second. After a few seconds, he slams his hands against the table. “God! FUCK! It doesn't make sense!” His head shakes, and his shoulders shake as he bursts into frustrated laughter. “It makes no fucking sense, Kanaya. Why would a neurosurgeon be working on a goddamned android? No, not an android. A _cyborg_. Why?”

Despite her friend's outburst, Kanaya maintains perfect poise. She shrugs. “I have no reason to give, Karkat. There's no immediate, obvious reason for this.”

“You think?” Karkat growls.

He studies the page currently displayed on the panel. It lists the man's full name, Doctor Andrew Scratch, as well as some basic background information. He's a graduate of the prestigious Salamance Medical Center. He's known as a pioneering force in the mind restoration movement. None of it is understandable; none of it connects.

“Where is he, now?”

“Huh?” Karkat looks up, suddenly remembering where he is. He's not in his office, he's in the middle of a public café... “Oh... He's at the apartment. Why?”

“Are you sure it's wise to leave him alone?” Kanaya's concern is obvious. She swirls her spoon in her tea. “And, now that you're speaking of it, I've seen some news that... might...” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a newspaper. Such items—actual _paper_ newspapers—are more of a novelty, but Karkat knows how much Kanaya enjoys her literal page-turning.

As Karkat skims through the article, which details the appearance of a confused, unidentified woman in the downtown area, Kanaya continues speaking. In truth, she didn't need to hand over the paper, seeing as she's filling her friend in verbally, anyhow. “Woman, 25, found wandering around downtown. Incoherent, occasionally seizing, constantly insisted that the year was—”

“2060,” interjects Karkat.

Kanaya laughs. “Yeah. Exactly. How did you know?”

Now, it's Karkat's turn to smile. “Just a hunch. So, where's that woman, now?”

“She was taken to central holding. Why?”

Karkat grins. He pulls out his car's keys, spinning them about around his finger as he elaborates, “Let's go.”

 

The woman in the cell looks remarkably like Dave. The same facial shape, the same pale hair... Her skin is slightly tanner, but not by much, and her eyes are a strange shade of pink, but she's otherwise a seeming copy of Dave. She sits in the corner of a grey prison cell, knees hugged to her chest, murmuring quietly to herself. “Dave... Where is...? No, he's probably fine. Absolutely fine... I...”

Karkat approaches, now. He gently rattles the bars of the cell, and the sound alerts the woman to his presence. When she turns to him, he offers a reassuring smile; in reality, it's more of a constipated grimace. “Hello. Yes, uh...” he clears his throat, looks over his shoulder, to Kanaya. Where he expects to see reassurance, he sees only confusion. Still, he forges ahead, his voice as soft as he can possibly make it, “Hello. Are you... Fuck... Is your name... Rose—?”

“—Lalonde,” the woman says, her voice hushed, “Rose Lalonde...” She shakes her head, then stands. Her back straightens, and she extends her hand, through the bars, to Karkat. “I'm Rose Lalonde. And I'll assume that you...” for a brief second, she stares at Karkat. Then, she supplies her answer, “Private investigator, Karkat Vantas.”

“Yes. How did you—?”

“Facial recognition software.” A small smirk graces her lips, stained black, with lipstick. She takes a step back and folds her arms across her chest. “While I am not lying to you, and am, indeed, Rose Lalonde, I am formally known as Experiment TT126. From your uncanny ability to deduce strange details about me, I assume you know of me.”

Karkat nods. It takes him a moment, but he manages to recall seeing the serial code listed on the page he’d found with Dave. And, while that topic is on his mind, he vocalizes it, “You were speaking of a certain Dave character,” he says, “He wouldn’t happen to be this man, would he?” At this point, Karkat’s phone projects an image of the android currently residing in his house.

Rose’s eyes widen, until pinpricks of pink light are visible at the center of her irises. “Yes, he’s...”

“Your brother,” supplies Karkat.

Now, it’s Kanaya’s turn to speak. She steps forward, unyielding in her approach, and commands attention. “I’m sorry, but what the hell is going on here?”

“It’s a long, long story, Kanaya, and I’m not sure I know all the answers, but I think I’m getting there.” Karkat pauses. He considers his next move. The best thing to do would be to also keep tabs on Rose. If this is, indeed, the same cyborg as the one in the paper, Scratch will undoubtedly want her returned. It also means that she holds vital information. So, it seems that the answer is clear. “Kanaya, would you mind doing me a favor?”

”Possibly,” the woman responds, offering her friend a strange look. “What is it?”

“I’m going to bail Rose out. Until we can fully understand what’s happening, I’d like for you to put her up at your place.” Now, Karkat feeezes. It occurs to him that, as a similar construction to Dave, Rose is also fully sentient. Heat rises to his cheeks, tight his complexion hides the blush. “That is... if it’s okay with you, Rose.”

Oddly enough, the android smiles. She glances towards Kanaya, then back to Karkat, before speaking, “If this lovely lady would permit it, that sounds wonderful.”

Knowing Kanaya, Karkat guesses she, too is blushing as she counters, “Yes, that’s something I can do for you.”

“Great.” Karkat reaches into his pocket, draws out his wallet, and heads back to the front desk of the jail. “I’ll bail you out, in that case, Ms. Lalonde.”

 

It takes a total of an hour and a half, but Rose is eventually released from police custody. With the arrangements made for her to stay with Kanaya,her boarding situation is settled. What is  _not_ settled is the entire matter surrounding both Dave and, now, Rose. Thus, at the android's request, the trio has set themselves up at a local café.

Interestingly, Rose is drinking; this is certainly not a standard feature in most androids. The need to drink would do nothing, functionally, for the robots, beyond creating a sense of realism. Thus, Karkat assumes that, like Dave, Rose must be biologically human. He keeps this to himself for now, though. For now, he focuses on obtaining information. “Let me try and get this straight,” he says, brows furrowed, “You escaped from the facility...?”

“That is correct,” Rose says, smiling.

“You have no idea where you came from, or who was keeping you there?”

“Unfortunately, I do not.”

“And you claim to be related to Dave Strider, a man who died seventy years ago?”

A nod. “That's also correct.” Rose folds her hands atop the table. Her expression is inscrutable; her eyes, as blank as Dave's, are no help. “And _you_ claim to be the sole guardian of my brother, now, do you not?”

“He's at my apartment, yeah.” Karkat chugs his own cup of coffee. Unlike Rose, he takes no time to savor it; in fact, he doesn't really like coffee that much, he just needs the caffeine. “I claim no fucking responsibility for whatever sort of dumbass decisions he makes. For now, until we understand more about this situation, I'll keep the two of you apart, at least physically.” From his pocket, he pulls a spare phone. As a detective, he keeps a few of these on his person at all times. Burn phones are always useful. “You can use this to contact him, though, and Kanaya will take you back to her apartment.”

Now, Rose's smile shifts. There's a pointed, obvious excitement in her expression, and a sudden perkiness to her stance. “Oh, this beautiful lady over here? I'd be more than happy to go with her.”

Kanaya offers a small smile, herself, as she responds, “Yes, I think we shall get along fine together, Karkat. Thank you for your trust in this matter.”

“No problem.” Karkat's words are a bit gruffer than he intends for them to be, but that can't be helped. He pulls on his light overcoat, to stave off the light rain outside, and departs, cursing under his breath. Of course, as soon as things seem to be falling in place, the world throws a wrench in the works.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, comments, feedback, and predictions are always welcome! thanks for reading! ♥


	5. There's a mess of moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **24 March 2130:** Dave is... He's intriguing. He doesn't seem to care that he's dead, or why he's dead. He's more interested in why he's alive. And, maybe, that's natural. Maybe that's the most natural goddamned thing about this entire stupid shitfest. I can't say. What's happening here isn't normal, but neither, I guess, is he. He's an enigma. I can't understand what's happening, and I can't even begin to, but, hopefully, I can start to put together the convoluted pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title for this one comes from Glenn Miller's 1939 song, [In the Mood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_CI-0E_jses).

“Rose Lalonde?” from his spot in the corner, leaning against a sturdy end table, Dave sighs. He closes his eyes, taps his fingers against the table's surface, and chews on his lip. “Yeah. My sister. Uh...” He turns, so that his face isn't towards Karkat, and sips at his coffee. “This is some good stuff, by the way. What's in it?”

“Vanilla extract,” Karkat mutters, “Now, back to the fucking point, just tell me what you know about Rose. Who is she? What does she have to do with all of this!? How are you here, if you died years ago!?” His voice is frantic; his body language, on edge. He's at the end of his rope, yet he knows the answers he so desperately wants to find won't be so easy to uncover. That doesn't mean he won't try, though. “You died,” he says, emphatically, as he gestures to the newspaper snippet, currently being projected on the living room wall.

“I did.” Dave smiles. He laughs. He sets down his coffee, then rocks back and forth, alternating between his heels and the balls of his toes. “That sure is me. I mean... it _was_ me. I died. Big deal. What's the problem? I've been spouting this fact off, like, foaming at the mouth with this rabies fact foam, but you haven't been listening,” he shrugs.

“I’ve been listening, You dense, incomprehensible fuck, but none of it makes sense. How can a man, who has, might I remind you, been dead for seventy years, be alive right now?” Karkat’s fingers tangle in his hair.

“You’re the detective, pal, you tell me,” Dave smirks. “I have no clue. One minute, I’m in what I thought was heaven. The next? I’m getting yelled at by some stuffy, overconfident bastard in a trench coat that looks ready to crawl back to the early twentieth century hole it crawled out of.”

“This coat is a Vantas family heirloom, dammit.”

“So, I’m not wrong?”

A long, hesitant sigh. Karkat retreats from Dave, and flops onto the sofa. “This is impossible. There’s no way I’ll ever figure this out. I should just return you to whatever sort of godforsaken test chamber you came from.

More smirking. “I died in the 60’s. I can remember that much. Some shady bastard came up behind me... I mean. I was just walking in the park, and this bastard came up and shot me. It’s a nice, clean, easy death. I was there, I looked down, saw blood, and I wasn’t.” Dave snaps his fingers. “Gone. Just like that.”

“And that’s all you know?”

“My sister was behind me. She tried interfering, but the guy pulled the same trick. I know it was a guy, because he had this mustache...” Dave leans forward and, taking hold of a nearby pen, scribbles out an image of said facial hair.

Studying it, Karkat can’t say it’s in any way odd. In fact, the simple squashed half circle shape was standard fashion for the time. Nothing about it seems anywhere near outlandish enough for it to be worth using as a point of reference. So, it’s back to square one.

“I appreciate the help,” Dave assures, speaking over Karkat’s thoughts, “But it really ain’t all that fuckin’ big of a deal. Whoever it is, they’re deader than dead. There’s no way in the deepest pits of the most undank of hells that they’d have survived this long.”

“True,” Karkat admits. “I hate to say it, but you’re right. There’s no point chasing that lead.”

“Yeah, that's barking up the wrong tree, Detective Pikachu,” Dave laughs.

Karkat, in return, looks perplexed. “What, in the name of the lord's nebulous, lofty heavens, is a Pikachu? That's... That's not even a word.”

Dave freezes. A look of concern crosses his features, and his brows furrow. He looks about ready to, once again, faint; or, perhaps, he's about to cry. “You... Pokémon? Pokémon, gotta catch 'em all? Come on, dude, do you live under a fuckin’ rock?”

“Strider, I haven't the foggiest idea what sort of strange, archaic fecal matter you're trying to reference. It's 2130. I'm sure whatever you're talking about is gone, now.”

Panic. That's the only word Karkat can think of to describe the speed with which Dave whips out a search engine. He types in something, only to let forth a poorly stifled cry. “POKÉMON DOESN'T EXIST ANY MORE!? What the literal fuck sort of world is this!?”

“I still don't know what you're talking about,” mumbles Karkat. When Dave opens his mouth, he raises his hand and speaks, loudly proclaiming, “ _And_ I don't want to know.”

“Oh.” Dave falls silent. He sits, leaning his back against the wall, and runs his fingers through his hair. “Jesus fuck. I couldn't have at least been reborn in a world where Pikachu still exists?”

“Apparently, no,” Karkat shakes his head. He opens up The Marmaduke, and begins carelessly scrolling through the headlines.

Nothing seems particularly interesting. As usual, there's the standard fare of politics. People are still arguing the merits of androids; the question of their viability as people, in their own right, has been an issue for as long as Karkat can remember. There are feel-good blurbs, about people helping one another. A few ads for local businesses. Seeing nothing particularly noteworthy, he minimizes the projection and places the cube in his pocket.

As if he has been waiting for the opportunity, Dave eagerly speaks up. “This is still Skaia, though, right? The city of Skaia?”

“Yes.”

“Century Park still exists, right?”

Hesitancy, followed by immediate curiosity, hangs in Karkat's voice. “Yes. Why?”

“I buried a time capsule there,” explains Dave. His voice is strangely flat, yet distinct from the robotic tones heard during his technical shutdowns. He says things in a matter-of-fact way, as if to detach himself from his situation. “I was born in Houston, but I moved here as an adult. More jobs, y'know? Met up with my sister, Rose, and we split rent. If you have a shovel, we can probably go dig it up.”

Now, Karkat is aware that there's a possibility the capsule isn't there. In fact, he's sure that it won't be, but he's too curious to refuse the opportunity. Whatever is inside that box could be relevant to this case... “Yeah. Sure. Let's go.” He motions for Dave to follow as he pulls on his trademark overcoat.

 

By the time the capsule has been dug up, the overcast skies have opened. Both men are thoroughly soaked, though it's dwindled to a gentle drizzle. Cast against the same perspiring, low-hanging clouds, are advertisements, which fill the sky. “Buy Golden Tread car tires! Keep your car running forever, now for only $300 per tire!” reads one, beneath which is the image of a satirized Rosie the Riveter. “Luminary Holofilms is hiring! Showcase your skill! Auditions for upcoming films now open,” reads another. All vapid, useless things; to Karkat, it's just static, filtered out by his very nature.

Due to the nature of his job, and the expansion of his company, Karkat has been less involved in the physical aspects of detective work for a few years. He's not as accustomed to heavy work as he had been, and his muscles ache. He sits on a large rock, which both he and Dave uncovered during his dig, and his sweat mingles with grey raindrops against his skin.

Dave, however, is as energetic as when the venture began. With a tattered tin box, similar in appearance to antique lunchboxes, in hand, he clambers from the newly created hole. For the first time since Karkat had met him, he's smiling. “It's still here!” he proclaims, dusting off the top. The years of grime and mud fade, revealing the logo of whatever he'd been speaking of before,  _Pokémon_ , above the image of an orange dragon. The rusted clasps take a bit of work but, after a few minutes, he decides that saving the box isn't worth his time. He rips the case open with inhuman force, sending the rusty hinges flying. He huddles beneath the shelter of a canopy of tree branches, then dumps the contents onto the ground.

To Karkat's disappointment, it all looks like trash. There are plastic-encased cards, in stunningly nice shape, with strange and colorful beasts illustrated on them. Faded photos are inside, but they ultimately turn to dust when Dave touches them. The more Dave sifts through, the more exasperated Karkat becomes. “All of this for your old trash!?” he snaps. “We did all of this for some fucking trash!? This is pointless! I'm trying to help you, Strider, but you're making it harder than the finest reinforced steel the world could muster.”

Dave, in return, shrugs. “Do film canisters count for anything?”

“If they have decent footage on them,  _maybe_ ,” grumbles Karkat. He approaches Dave, only to find himself pausing. His attentions are captured by the image of a man, remarkably similar in appearance to Dave, sitting alongside what appears to be a clone of Rose. Both are smiling, and the arm reaching toward the photo suggests that this is a selfie. The edges of the paper are tattered, and the image, itself, is faded, but it's the only page that's survived the years underground. “Is that you?” he asks.

Dave rolls his eyes. “You're supposed to be the detective.”

“Fair point.” Karkat kneels down, beside the photo, and studies it. He sees nothing out of the ordinary, but the sheer amount of physical similarities between these people and the cyborg (android?) versions he knows now are, to say the very least, unsettling. He raises his wrist to the photo, and uses his watch to take a photo of the photo. (The irony of this action doesn't escape him, but he doesn't expect the page to hold up to much wear.) “And, as I understand it, you were a little younger than me when you died.”

“Twenty-three,” Dave announces, seemingly unconcerned with the fact that he's speaking about his own demise. He begins gathering his things. With the utmost care, he returns them to their container. While the clasps were broken, the lid still fits firmly on top; it's enough for it to be a decent enclosure when held flat. “I'm starving. Do you know anywhere decent to eat?”

“Not really.” Karkat frequents local bars, not fine dining establishments. He's no drunk, but bar food is his vice. Offering him some nice, greasy steak fries is akin to handing a child some tooth-rotting candy. Nevertheless, he offers what he can, “The Kashmir is a decent place. Good booze, decent food...”

“Well, then, lead the fuckin’ way.” Dave grins. He rises to his feet, pats Karkat on his back, then shoves the man forward.

* * *

25 March 2130: Not much to say today beyond the fact that, apparently, Dave can get drunk. Keep him away from hard liquor; he holds his beer like Sollux, which is to say he doesn't.

In the early morning hours of a new day, before the sun has even risen, Karkat finds himself awake. He can't sleep. He's  _been_ trying, but the fact of the matter is that he's awake for the day, and, according to his clock, it's only 4:30. A sigh escapes him, and he trudges into the kitchen. As he begins to brew himself some coffee, wrinkling his nose at the acrid scent, he wanders into the living area. He passes the sofa, on which Dave is sleeping, and takes a moment to study the man.

If he's being entirely honest, he has to say that he's attractive. And, right now, there's something oddly peaceful about him. He's unbothered by the world, asleep, his arms folded across his chest, as if hugging himself. He snores, softly, and the light on the controls behind his ear pulses a soft, calm blue. From time to time, the fingers of his artificial arm twitch, though his natural appendage remains still. His left leg is bent, and the other is straight.

And, as he looks on, there's a tug at his heart.

Whoever this man is, whatever he's been through, he has to help him. Not just for Dave, but for himself. Whatever is happening is obviously big, and it would be the best for everyone for the person behind it all to be brought to whatever justice may be. No matter the measures, nor the dangers of the situation, the truth must be found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another update! thanks for reading! i still love comments, feedback, theories, and all that! as an aside, Pokémon technically does exist, it’s just super obscure and a dead franchise 110 years in the future.


	6. Scarlet billows start to spread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **26 March 2130:** No headway on the case, and no new cases deemed important enough to send up the chain of command. The more time passes, the deeper I sink into this compost heap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one’s title is from Bobby Darin’s 1959 hit, Mack the Knife. [**Here's the link**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SEllHMWkXEU). I've also added some art to the first chapter, you can check it out by going back, or using [**this link**](https://tt40art.tumblr.com/post/184927093954/another-homestuck-sketch-this-one-of-a-detective) to my art blog!

The news rambles endlessly about the weather, speaking frankly about the days to come. “Flooding risks for the city are now very high, expect anywhere from five to ten inches in the streets, and avoid using smaller cars. Officials will be directing traffic through flood designated streets.”

Looking outside the window of Karkat’s apartment, it’s not hard to see why. The rain, which had begun two days prior, is still coming down in sheets. Wind whips it about, thrashing it against the windows like shards of glass embedded in the strings of a whip. It’s unrelenting and wild, but such is the weather.

Karkat isn’t bothered by it. And, right now, all he’s interested in is the fact that Kanaya has brought Rose to the apartment.

The two alleged siblings have had their moment of reunion, though it was uneventful. They briefly embraced, then frankly expressed their joy in seeing the other alive. Now, they sit, about a yard apart, with Karkat as a mediator. Kanaya, Karkat notices, keeps a keen eye on Rose.

“So, Rose, what do you remember?” He asks, tapping his pen against his notebook.

“Well,” says the woman, “I recall that, on the day I died, I was physically attacked by a man with no recognizable facial features.” She pauses. Gesturing to her face, she explains, “He was wearing one of those reflective party masks, the variety one would see at Halloween. I knew he was a man, because he spoke to me.”

Karkat nods. “He did?” Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Kanaya tense. He briefly wonders if she has developed feelings for her charge. “What did he say?”

When she answers, Rose is quite indifferent. Her voice is flat, and her posture remains as upright as before. “‘You bitch, you don’t understand what good this will do the world. You will be one of the last people on the earth to die.’ Then, he shot me.”

“Interesting,” mutters Karkat, noting the words in his book. “And, then?”

“Nothing. I don’t remember anything, not until I woke up in the lab. I suspect Dave’s story is remarkably similar. I do, somehow, remember small flashes, as if I was in a peaceful dream, but that’s all I can currently recall for you.”

Karkat, in return, offers a small nod. He sticks a biscuit into his mouth—it's the sort one finds in a little tin, more prolifically during the holiday season, with one side that is plain and an opposite face dipped in chocolate. As he turns to Dave, he holds it in place, only biting down when he's finished making his notes. “Okay,” he says, now waving the remaining half of the baked good in the air, “So, you've heard her side of the story. What's yours?”

Dave, as Karkat has learned to expect, smirks. He laughs, but it's hollow; he smiles, but it's not joyous. When he speaks, his voice is flat. “Look, I've already told you everything I know about it. I don't really remember much.” He rubs the back of his neck and turns his face away. He's nervous, but probably not lying. “Really? Gonna be real, here, chief, this is making me pretty uncomfortable.”

“That's understandable, Dave,” reassures Rose.

Karkat ignores the exchange. He pulls up his photo of the image in Dave's time capsule, and shows it to Rose. “Can you tell me anything about this?” Immediately after asking this, and seeing the mischievous glint in her grin, he clarifies, “ _That isn't the identity of the subjects_ , who we can all agree happen to be you and Dave.”

Kanaya, from where's she's engaged in a game of sudoku, snickers.

Rose frowns. “Oh,” she says, appearing crestfallen, “Well, I do believe that particular photograph was taken on the day of our murder. Dave and I, as it turns out, and from what I gleaned in my own research, were killed on the same day. Both of us had gone out for a hike, but we'd split up.”

“Why?” asks Karkat.

A disgruntled tut comes from Rose. “I was getting there, Karkat. Patience. There was a large log in the middle of the trail, due to recent and rather severe storms and flooding. We said we'd meet up at the other side, but my  _dear, intelligent_ brother managed to get lost.” Rose shifts in her seat, crossing her legs and folding her arms across her chest. “Now, might I pose my own query? Why do you care? Certainly, whoever killed us can't be alive at this point.”

“I'm just being thorough, Miss Lalonde.” A forced smile. Karkat scribbles down the last of this information before closing his notebook. He peers outside, and to the flooded streets below. “It seems now's a fucking bad time to try and make your way home, so why don't you stay for a while?” He wanders into his kitchen, taking from his shelf some alcoholic beverages, before finishing his proposal, “Kanaya, I assume you want your usual vodka and lime?”

The woman in question nods. A smile breaks across her features, highlighting her shining cheeks. “Of course!”

Karkat begins pouring. “Rose and Dave, what about you?”

“I don't drink,” Rose says, succinctly. “I'll take some water.” She doesn't wait for a response. Instead, she walks to the fridge, and begins filling her own glass, which she takes directly from Karkat's display of collectible steins. (The detective doesn't dare oppose this. He needs his witnesses to be on good terms with him.)

Dave, meanwhile, begins to rudely root through his fridge. “I just want a fuckin’ beer. Nice, fizzy, frothy, burns-your-goddamned-throat-all-the-sweet-way-down beer.” Upon finding it, there's a loud declaration of “ah-ha!” followed by the production of a bottle of Old Harbinger.

For the want of conversation, Karkat wrinkles his nose. By now, he's provided Kanaya with her libations. Now, he pours himself a bottle of Arcadia Merlot. “Old Harbinger is trash, Strider,” he scoffs. “I keep that literal motor oil for my friend, Sollux, whose taste buds have been all but fried by the scourge of Firebrand sodas. I'd sooner pour hot, viscid vomit down my own gullet than drink that fucking sludge.” He claims his recliner, and drops into it, with a resounding  _thud_. Then, before Dave can respond, he turns his attention to Kanaya. “How's business been?”

“We've got a decent number of cases. I would not say we are buried beneath files, but it's not a dry summer. They're our usual fare. Murders, missing people, and theft.” Kanaya sips from her glass, then wipes excess lipstick from its rim. She has always been a proper and clean woman, but this is a bit much. In the back of his mind, Karkat notes that she only acts  _this_ proper around people she likes. Furthermore, knowing her orientation, there's only one possible candidate. But, because Karkat enjoys having working knuckles, he remains silent.

Karkat, rather than giving in to the vice of curiosity, nods. “Yeah, well, as I expected, that Scratch bastard asked me about Rose. I told him we were on that case, too.”

 

Time passes. The weather remains the same. Karkat invites Kanaya and Rose to stay for the night, and both accept. It doesn't slip past the detective's attentions that the two women are eager to accept the preposition of sharing the guest room, either. By 8:00 PM, both of the women have retreated to their private space, and Karkat is once again alone with Dave.

Far below, amidst the muted sounds of the city, is the piercing screech of a single police siren. Flashing red and blue lights reflect off of waterlogged glass panes, stretching as high as the eye can see. Seconds later, there's another alarm, followed by more lights. Dave, observing this, speaks up, “So, the city hasn't changed at all?”

“How so?” asks Karkat, bored of the silence.

“Still about as safe as jumping into a shark tank covered in meat juice,” Dave clarifies, tacking on a hearty laugh. The sound sends a shiver down Karkat's spine. “Doesn't it bother you?”

“Not really,” shrugs Karkat. It used to. When he began, it bothered him immensely. Every murder was personal, and every abducted person was like his own family. But, as time wore on, he learned to stop caring. Now, he finds that he often feels cold, as if he's indifferent to human suffering. “It sucks, but that's just how it is. If I want to keep making my government commission, I keep solving the cases they don't want to get their bureaucratic hands dirty with.”

“Like mine?” It's a passing comment, but it lights a spark of interest in Karkat's mind.

“Yeah...” The word comes out slowly, as if Karkat needs to process it. “Yeah. Like your case...”

Dave, apparently unaware of Karkat's epiphany, keeps rambling. “World's a shithole, dude. I'm just getting my life together, move away from podunk Houston, and WHAM! Murdered. Dead! Farewell, sweet, fleshy, corporeal reality. I knew thee well.”

“Wait,” Karkat interrupts, suddenly aware of every little word that comes from Dave's mouth. “Go back. You  _just_ moved here? So, no friends?”

“Wow, fuck,” Dave laughs, “You don't need to put it that way.”

“No, I do,” insists Karkat, now scrambling for his notebook. “You were the perfect target. No one knew you were here, except for Rose. This was random. Whoever killed you? I'm willing to bet you and Rose weren't the only ones.”

“Really?” Dave's face is the perfect image of shock. “Why're you saying that?”

“Some shady, moral-less bastard kills two people, one fresh to Skaia, and the other, the only person who knows the first is even there...” Pages are ripped from the notebook and pinned to an antique cork board, one that Karkat's father had gifted him, shortly before his death. “This guy wasn't just looking for people to kill, he needed people no one would remember.”

“You're not really instilling a whole lot of self-confidence, here, Mr. Shrink,” Dave mumbles.

Karkat ignores the jab. He keeps talking, voicing his rapidly hastening chain of thought. To his right, he projects a database of unsolved murders from the mid-twenty first century. As he speaks, he scrolls through the page. “He needed to be able to kill without being noticed... There was... There has to have been some sort of reasoning behind all of this.”

“Well, if you've figured out the reason, you're way ahead of me...”

Karkat, now driven by professional habit, opens another search. This time, he looks for something he remembers seeing before, an organization he's aware of, but for a reason he can't quite place. “Mindscape Memorial,” he says, “Dave, do you recognize that?”

“I mean...” There's a moment of hesitancy, during which the light behind Dave's ear pulses purple. Then, there's sudden clarity. “Before I died, I signed up for some sort of scientific trial. They said they'd pay me for it. An absolutely balls-shattering amount, too. Never did get that check...”

 _“What was it!?”_ Karkat urges.

“Mindscape Memorial,” repeats Dave. “I never got the specifics of it, but... I...” his voice trails off, fading to silence as both men begin to understand the implications of the words on the projected display.

 **Mindscape Memorial** was a large-scale global study, funded by various international interest groups and government agencies, into the possibility of prolonged lifespans. The controversial study has been accused, by both contemporaries and modern researchers, of relying on human trafficking and dubious advertising practices to enlist its participants. Subjects of the study agreed to the then-revolutionary technology of mind uploading.a Critics of the study also objected to the treatments of the uploaded minds, many of which belonged to disenfranchised individuals without families.

In 2115, the company in charge of Mindscale Memorial, SBURB International, has opened their database of digital minds, referred to as “cases”, to the public. For a variable fee, a number of these minds may be downloaded for study. Few object to the practice, which has been credited with breakthroughs in modern psychology and scientific understanding of human thought. In 2122, government officials surveyed the company's working conditions, and noted that, while employees were well treated, the physical copies of over half of the “cases” in SBURB International's care (amounting to the uploaded minds of some 200,000 individuals) have been lost.

a. Note: Many modern cemeteries and memorial services organizations offer “living history” packages, which use truncated versions of the deceased's memories to create a virtual replica, with which grieving family members can converse.


	7. We've reached a deadline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **27 March 2130:** Fuck classified documents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This title is from [**Twentieth Century Blues**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AN6R5gQC_pg), by Noël Coward, from 1931. Warning in this chapter for a brief mention of a car crash, me killing off Karkat's dad, and also a cliffhanger.

The man behind the front desk of the records building is a short, rotund man. A walrus mustache obscures most of his face, and a scowl is set onto his chiseled features. “Sir, we can’t just grant access to you. We understand that you’re on a case, but the records you want are classified.”

Karkat bristles at the reply. “I’ve seen classified documents before.”

“These are different. You cannot access them.” The man turns around, shakes his head, and returns with a small red slip of paper. Setting it flat on the counter, he continues, “If you continue to insist upon this, I will be forced to place this on your service record, Detective Vantas.”

Karkat shakes his head. He kicks the counter, turns, and storms out.

Outside, he trudges through the still-flooded streets. Water soaks his pants and sloshes in his shoes. When he finally reaches his car, he dumps the moisture from his shoes and slams his fist against the wheel, causing the horn to go off.

In the passenger seat, handcuffed in place, Dave smirks. “I’m guessing you didn’t get what you needed?”

“No, stupid, I didn’t,” Karkat snaps.

“Is this normal?” Dave asks, suddenly shifting gears. He looks out the window of his car, to the water lapping at the bottom of the window. “This shit never happened when I was alive.”

“Yeah?” Karkat reaches over, chugs his bottle of soda, and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “Well, the world’s been fucked. We survive in our own toxic sludge and waste.”

“Oh.” Dave sighs. He moves his arm, only for the handcuff to dig in. There’s an electric fizzle, followed by a yelp of pain. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, dude, do I really have to be cuffed? This thing is short circuiting the nerves of my arm, and I’m not being all metaphorical, now.”

“It’s protocol,” Karkat counters. With the press of a button, he enables the car’s automatic controls. He sits back. “Why do you have a fake arm, anyhow?”

“Hell if I know,” Dave shrugs. “I guess it fell off. You can’t just ask people what happened to their limbs, asshole.”

“Touché,” acknowledges Karkat.

“Why are you so damned uptight?” Dave punches his companion on the shoulder. “Loosen up. You’re not the one whose entire life was cut short.”

“Okay, now you’re just being fucking depressing.”

“When I was a kid, I dreamed of being a big time musician,” Dave explains, completely out of the blue, “I was working on that when I was killed. Had a big gig all lined up, you see? Dave Strider was headlining at Blue Oyster, this big seafood dive place. ‘Course, that was for the day after I died, and, from what I’ve read, I wasn’t even identified until the next year.

“So, here I was, last night, y’know, I couldn’t sleep. And I looked myself up, and all anyone remembered about my music was that I completely skipped my biggest gig.” To end this long-winded story, Dave offers a lopsided smile. There’s no hint of joy, but it’s not sad; it’s a show of nerve. “What about you?” Dave kicks back, reclining in his own seat, “What did you want to do as a kid?”

“What do you care?” Karkat remains on edge. Getting close to his cases is never a good idea, and, certainly, not this case. The outcome is unpredictable, but each subsequent day is making it harder and harder for him to resist getting personally involved.

And Dave seems determined to make this fact true. “No reason. I guess I’m just bored.”

A long sigh escapes Karkat. Then, reluctantly, he responds. His arms remain folded stubbornly across his chest, but the barrier this forms between him and Dave is flimsy. “I wanted to be a history teacher.”

“And you’re a detective?” goads Dave, waggling his brows. “How is that related?”

“It’s not.” Even knowing what’s to come—what he’ll say next—Karkat laughs. His mirth disappears, though, as he continues, “My... uh... This is my father’s firm. Or, he was in the process of making this firm. Murdered. I got into detective work because of that.”

“Oh.” Dave frowns. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. It happened fucking forever ago. It’s a distant, mildly painful memory.”

“Yeah.” Dave falls silent.

“What sort of instrument did you play?”

Surprise is the most accurate word to describe Dave’s reaction. His eyes widen, and his jaw falls slack, but it only lasts for a second. Then, it’s replaced by a smirk. “What’s it matter to you, dude?”

Karkat groans. “Oh, don’t throw this touché bullshit right back into my face, you twinkish little dweeb.”

Dave raises his hands in the air and laughs. Admittedly, there’s something nice about his laugh. It’s a gentle, low, rumbling sound, like gravel. “Fine! Fair! I played guitar and piano. I also did vocals. I was a solo act, really.”

“Really?”

“No, I just entirely lied about all of that.”

“Jesus, you're insufferable,” Karkat snaps back only to verbally reaffirm the screaming in his head. He needs to beat back his rising need to empathize with someone—anyone. He needs to feel something other than professional disconnect. “Look, why don't we just... I don't know. Have you remembered anything else about your—?”

“DOWN!” Dave leans across the small space between him and Karkat. He shoves the other man down, and presses his own chest to his knees.

At the same time, the sound of shattering glass and the pop of gunshots rings through the air. People scream. Water sloshes at the knees of people, all of whom wildly flee from the scene. Through the newly created hole in his window, roughly level with where he head had just been, Karkat sees an approaching stop sign. The car slows, and he slams his foot against the accelerator.

“Emergency manual driving mode entered.”

“Go, dumbass, go!” Dave urges.

Karkat fumbles. As is required, he passed his driving test, but he's never actually driven. Manual driving is only allowed during emergency situations. And, while this is definitely an emergency situation, it's only the second time in his life that Karkat has actually driven a car. “What the fuck do I do!?”

“God, what the fuck!?” Dave leans across the center of the vehicle and grabs onto the wheel. “Just stay on the gas. Keep your foot on the gas. Do you think that was—?”

A loud bang, followed by another new hole in the windshield.

Another bang, followed by the sound of metal scraping against asphalt.

Another bang, and the sound of screeching tires.

Karkat sees the approaching roadblock, the unyielding cement of a road barrier, and squeezes his eyes shut. In the back of his mind, he wonders how his life would be, now, if everything had been different. What if he didn't decide to investigate his father's death? What if he just moved on with his life, and never got himself embroiled in this web of conspiracies? What if—?

The car goes airborne. Through the sunroof, Karkat sees, first, the overcast sky; then, the ground. This repeats in rapid succession several times. Then he sees an expanse of overgrown green. There's a loud crunch, and the world turns black.

* * *

_It seems like a lifetime ago, when the world was rosy and brilliant, and everything shone with vivid colors beyond what could be believed. There was possibility everywhere. Anything Karkat wanted, he could do. He was nineteen, had a degree in education, and was lined up as a teacher at the local elementary school. He'd arrived for his first day dressed his best, on advice given to him by his father. His shirt and pants were impeccably ironed, not a goddamned wrinkle in sight, and his black shoes had been meticulously polished to a shine. His, tie, however, was bright and cheerful, bearing on it the repeating motif of a dancing crab. Being a gift from his father, he wore it proudly._

_“Mr. Vantas.” That's what every kid called him. He liked it. He liked the ring it had, and the weight it carried._

_The children were energetic and carefree. They spoke to him enthusiastically, and he asked them about their summer vacation. They all reported varying levels of enrichment, but he found no stories particularly worrisome. At lunch, in the teacher's lounge, he'd spoken with and befriended a kind, older woman, Ms. Snow, whose odd anecdotes kept him blissfully unaware of what was happening at his father's workplace._

_He'd concluded his last class with a smile, one of the very few he can remember in recent years, before walking outside to face a black-clad police officer._

_“Are you Mr. Shaan Vantas?” the officer had asked, reading the name from the back of a blood-soaked photo. The image, itself, was no longer recognizable, but Karkat knew it was a photo of his family, shortly before his mother's death._

_It was such a trivial thing, that photo, and Karkat had always given his father grief about it. ‘Why bother carrying around a piece of paper in your wallet?’ he'd always asked._

_Then, he knew. He understood why his father kept it with him._

_And, yet, he remembers so clearly, the way he dumbly furrowed his brows and opened his mouth, tugging anxiously at his tie the whole time. He had stammered his words, a stark contrast from the confidence he'd exhibited in front of his class, just moments ago, “I... Uh... I go by my middle name, Karkat. You... Uh... What's the matter?”_

_It's all so clear. The look on the officer's face—the frown, the watery eyes, the soft voice—had said it all. And, from that point on, Karkat was acting on autopilot. He had known so little about his father's life and job before then, but, now, he understands. And, then, when he uncovered the truth of the matter, he understood it, too._

_It had been nothing more than an act of petty revenge. A disgruntled client, who had hired Karkat's father to acquit his son's murder charges, disliked that his requests were refused. And, they should have been. The Vantas family has morals. The company has morals. The client knew their son was guilty, but refused to live with the fact. A single bullet to the head was all it took to shatter Karkat's perfect, placid lifestyle._


	8. While the weak ones fade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **28 March 2130:** MY FUCKING CAR!!!!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from [**God Bless the Child**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bKNtP1zOVHw). If no one has noticed it, there’s a lot of Bioshock hits here.

The first thing to cross Karkat’s mind is how nice it is to look up at the sky and see the stars. He can’t remember seeing them, at least not since his father took him out, to a secluded field, after his mother’s funeral. He’d pointed to the stars in the sky that night, and taught Karkat the constellations.

The second thing Karkat notices is a voice. “Hey, buddy, you're not dead, are you? That would really suck...” A hand touches his neck, feeling for a pulse. The skin is cold. In fact, after a second, it dawns upon him that it isn't skin at all. Rather, it's exposed metal. “You have a pulse. Head wound isn't too serious, just a scalp laceration...” Another hand, this one definitely real, touches his forehead, just above his right eye. It stings.

“JESUS FUCK!” Karkat yelps. He reaches out, shoving the person touching him back. His vision begins clearing, and he sees Dave before him.

And, in response to his actions, Dave laughs. “You're a real wimp,” he mumbles. “Look, we took a pretty long fall. I'm actually floored as fuck that you ain't dead, so don't move around too much. How do you feel?”

“Like I just drove off a fucking cliff, you absolute twit.”

“Okay, so your mouth works, that's good.” Dave steps back. It occurs to Karkat that the car has landed upright, and the roof has been peeled away, like the lid of a can. The windshield is gone, giving a clear view of Dave, as he stands, arms crossed, amidst a tangle of overgrowth. “Can you move everything?”

“Yeah,” Karkat says, stretching his arms and legs. He looks ahead, to a shard of shattered rearview mirror on the dashboard. In it, he sees himself, his face bloodied, and his hair caked with rusty red. “I'm pretty sure I've fucked over some ribs, but I guess that's to be expected. Did the airbags not deploy?”

“Oh, no, they did. I've just removed everything I could.” As if it wasn't obvious, Dave gestures to the peeled away roof. “It was easier for me to assess your injuries. I've got some first aid experience, so...” he averts his gaze and buries his hands in his pockets. “Glad to see you're okay. I'd be damned bummed if the only person interested in figuring out my bullshit ended up dead, y'know?”

Unsure of how to respond, Karkat, instead, says nothing. He stumbles from his seat and into the tall grass around him. Though he spends several minutes looking around, studying his surroundings, he finds that he has no idea where he is. From what he can tell, the car has fallen pretty far. The usual hum of activity in the city is nowhere to be heard, and the world, itself, is eerily quiet. “I don't like this.”

“I'd imagine.” Dave stands before the remnants of the rearview mirror, staring at himself. A series of small scabs cover his cheeks, and only the rims of his shades remain. “According to my internal GPS, we're not too far from the city, but we've got to climb a pretty steep hill. Not sure how raring to go you are about that, what with some fucked over ribs.”

“Yeah, climbing a cliff is a pretty piss poor idea right now, Strider.”

“There's an alternate route...” Dave frowns. The red light in his eyes grows, to about the diameter of a toothpick, as he continues, “It's an old mine. At the end, there should be an elevator. I can probably get it running.”

“Great.” Karkat wanders to the back of his car. From the trunk, he takes his briefcase. It's a tasteful solid black, made of faux leather, with silver accents. His father had given it to him, years ago, and he's used it ever since. Inside, he finds a variety of old papers, which he discards, alongside the essentials—a few prepackaged rations, some hydration pills, and a built-in solar powered power bank. From the glove compartment, he takes what little he can salvage—a flashlight, some identifying documents, his badge, and his insurance papers. (After this, he's sure he'll have one hell of a ring to jump through with insurance...) All of these things go into his case. Then, he turns to Dave. “Let's go.”

“Don't you want to rest?”

“Judging from the sky, I've been out for a while. Let's go,” Karkat insists. Normally, he'd be eager to rest. Right now, surrounded by nature and a silence he's unaccustomed to, he just wants to get back to society. “Lead the way.”

Dave nods. He obeys, leading the trek onward.

The journey winds its way through thick brush. The sheer amount of bugs and abundance of thorn-covered plants make Karkat grateful for his stubborn insistence upon formalwear. His slacks and jacket protect his arms and legs from further wear and tear, regardless of how hot they may be.

After some time, perhaps five or six hours, the pair reach the mouth of a dark cave. The entrance is blocked by rotting boards, which Dave easily breaks through, before holding the palm of his false arm out. From the center comes a bright light, revealed by the metal in the middle sliding away. The darkness parts, revealing a long, narrow tunnel. In some places, worn down rail tracks are still visible; in other spots, rubble has covered these remnants of human intervention. Cobwebs hang from the ceiling, spanning from top to bottom.

When Dave speaks, his voice echoes. The light behind his ear lights up, orange, now, and stays that way. “The data I've got says that this isn't the most stable mine. I wouldn't go doing a lively tap dance up and down these stony halls.”

“Yeah, most old mines aren't, dumbass,” Karkat snaps. He stumbles forward, struggling to find footing in the soft, silty, and sometimes gravel-covered ground. There's little consistency in the earth beneath his feet, and he often finds himself gripping the evenly spaced iron reinforcements along the path. “How the fuck did I end up here?”

“I'm sure you've figured out that detective isn't the most comfy job, right?” jests Dave. His back is to Karkat, so his face isn't visible, but it sounds as if he's smiling.

“Yeah, I got that much.”

Dave nods. In the distance, there's the sound of dripping water. “This isn't a long mine. We'll be at the elevator in maybe three hours, as long as we keep the same pace.” Dave pauses. He shines the light upward, illuminating a chimney-like gap in the stone, through which a grouping of sleeping bats can be seen. Shuddering, he turns the light back to the path ahead. “So, have you figured out anything about what's happening?”

“I have a theory,” is Karkat's honest answer.

“What is it?”

“It's just a theory.”

“I'd like to hear it.”

“Well, I think we both know that you're one of the lost minds from the Mindscape Memorial fiasco. So, knock that goddamned box off of the mind-numbing rotary manufacturing ring of possibilities.” As Karkat loses his footing, he instinctively reaches out, steadying himself against Dave. Heat rises to his cheeks. “I don't know who's pulling the strings, but I think we've got way more steaming, bovine fecal matter on our hands than a runaway android.”

Dave nods, but says nothing about the matter. Instead, as if deeply perturbed by what's been said, he changes the topic. “You know, when I was alive, places like this were all the rage. People would hang out in old mines and have literal underground parties. It was a weird youth trend, I guess. I never went to one. My brother was way too strict about that sort of deal, but I've heard they were absolutely wild.”

“Yeah, I've read about them,” Karkat mumbles.

“I guess it's just different, now.” Dave's voice is strangely soft, distant, almost. There's a bittersweet flavor to his words. “I don't think I belong here. Or, maybe, I don't belong  _now_. That doesn't make sense. I know it doesn't, but I can't explain it. It's just so... Nothing makes sense. I wake up, and your goddamned sofa turns into a coffee table, complete with little plants. It's just...” As if it will help him put his words together, he shakes his head.

Karkat frowns. “Well, I'm more than happy to help with that sort of shit. Just don't think about it too hard.” There's an awareness of the hollow nature of his words, but this is the best he can do. He's a detective, now. Anything he'd learned as a teacher is long gone. “So, this... uh... This Pokémon, what was it?” Right now, he figures it's best to distract Dave.

And, as it turns out, that's just what's needed. The man visibly brightens. His posture straightens, and there's a newfound energy in his stride. He begins speaking of an old cartoon and game series, one focused around fantastical monsters and beasts. There's a whole system of elements, and of elemental counters. He tries to explain it, but it makes no sense to Karkat; that's okay. The point of this isn't to actually learn anything. Rather, it's just a way to distract a troubled mind.

In this manner, the pair continue, until they reach the mine's elevator.

With a bit of work, Dave manages to rewire the system and restore power. The two ride the lift, back to the surface of the city, and break out of the mine's second boarded entrance. From there, they manage to catch a ride back to the apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah i know this seems oddly anticlimactic but there's a REASON. we got some MOTIVES to IMPLY.


	9. Before it becomes a funeral pyre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **30 March 2130:** I’ve been unable to contact Scratch, as has Kanaya. This bastard’s a real goddamned enigma, and I guess that’s how he wants it to be. Too bad for him; that won’t be lasting long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from Torched Song, from LA Noire.

“Data corruption in memory block twenty-one. Unit cannot parse contents, date range of June 2040 through August 2040.” The monotone voice, which emanates from the cyborg on his sofa, rouses Karkat from an otherwise peaceful sleep. As he creeps closer to Dave, whose eyes are half-closed, it continues, “Data corruption in memory block seventy-three. Unit cannot parse contents, data range of November 2048 through January 2049.”

As he looks on, Dave twitches. His slouch turns to an upright stance, and his eyes snap open. Warily, he stares at Karkat. “You’re... How long have you been there?”

“Not too long.”

“Great.” Dave shakes his head and buries his face in his hands. “I’ve been trying to dig up some memories, but a lot of them are corrupted. I can remember my time with my piece of shit, useless guardian, but not much else.” He pauses, staring, briefly, to the star-studded sky visible outside, before continuing, “I sure as fuck can’t remember anything about The murder.”

”Nothing?” Karkat growls. He sits down, upon a stool, that was formerly a potted plant, and digs his knuckles into the side of his thighs. “Fuck, this is impossible”

“I know facts about myself, like, who I am, but I don’t know what use that really is.” Dave shrugs. “I can tell you my favorite color is red, my favorite season is fall, and that I think you’re—” his words come to a sudden, sputtering stop. Dave’s eyes widen, and the red glow in his pupils becomes visible. Once again adopting a robotic monotone, he announces, “Sentience error S-four-two-two.” His fingers twitch, and his jaw clenches. His entire body tenses, and remains this way for several seconds before he regains control, at which point he proceeds to shake his head, then continue, as if nothing had happened. “You haven’t figured out anything new?”

Karkat, with his notebook always nearby, writes down his observations. “Kanaya and Rose have been doing some research...”

“Oh,” Dave laughs, waggling his brows, “They’re researching, alright.”

“Your implications aren’t lost on me, but I’m going to ignore them, and brand them as the same brand of pointless drivel that so inelegantly spurts from your mouth, as per usual.” A heavy _thud_  accompanies the closing of Karkat’s book. “As I was fucking saying, they’ve figured out some stuff, but not much. We’re still barely scratching the surface of whatever this clusterfuck of an affair is, and we have no clue what any of it means. The most I have right now is that, for some reason, your case was completely forgotten for a solid year after your bodies were found, hence the gap between your discovery and your identification.”

“Any autopsy photos?” Dave asks the question with a look of honest, if not a bit unnerving, curiosity. He cocks his head to the side and raises a brow above the shades he’s been using to keep his pupils hidden.

Karkat, after a moment of incoherent sputtering, offers a bewildered huff. “No, you creep. By the time they got to you, you were pretty fucked up. Doesn’t take long on a hiking trail to get drawn and quartered postmortem by animals.”

“Fair enough.” There’s a lull in the discussion, during which Dave occupies himself with the task of picking at the scabs on the back of his hands.

Karkat, meanwhile, sits at the sofa. He opens his phone, setting it so that the projection is only visible to him, before doing nothing in particular.

For some time, the only sound in the room is the occasional beat of Dave’s tapping feet. Then, without any sort of provocation, the cyborg breaks the silence. “Are you going to turn me over to Scratch when all this is over?”

Karkat hums. He looks up, with furrowed brows, and shakes his head. “Why the fuck would I do that? That bastard is a skeevy fucker, I’m not going to willingly hand him exactly what he wants.”

“Well, then, where would I go?”

Karkat freezes. It occurs to him that he never thought of this before now. And, now that the issue has arisen, he has to admit that he can’t just freely release Dave into the modern world. There would need to be, at the very least, a period of adjustment for the man, whose last experiences with the physical world were over half a century ago.

“I guess you’d stay here, if you want,” is Karkat’s eventual answer.

Dave responds with the ghost of a smile. “I’m not opposed to that.”

Without really knowing why, Karkat feels his cheeks heating up. He averts his gaze, opting to stare out the window. “Glad to hear you’d accept the offer.”

 

Later, as the sun is setting and the skies, darkened with smog, reflect as a deep, almost ominous blood red, Karkat sits before the wall-to-wall window in his living room. He looks to the skies, studying the clouds intently, and stares at the information he has on hand.

So far, he can only say that there’s more to this entire affair than he initially thought. Clearly, he’s dealing with something far more interesting than a simple lost person case.

“Have you managed to contact Scratch?” he asks, brows raised.

From behind his ear comes Kanaya’s voice. “I have not, unfortunately. I’ve found little about him online. So far, I’ve only been able to ascertain that he’s a reclusive individual.”

“A wizard in one hell of an ivory tower,” muses Karkat. A sigh of resignation escapes him. After minimizing the array of projections before him, he stands. “Any theories?”

“Rose suggested we try and look into Scratch.”

Karkat finds himself smirking. “You sure do seem to be fond of Rose...”

“Yes.” Kanaya answers without hesitation, but she fails to elaborate.

Karkat decides the matter is not, at this time, worth pressing. Instead, he returns to the primary topic of the call, saying, “And how would you suggest we do that?”

“Well, I’ve discovered that he does, indeed, hold a medical degree. He also seems to be involved with Stern Laboratories.”

“Stern...” Karkat taps the end of his pen against the open palm of his free hand. “That’s the robotics company known for their amazing as fuck innovations, right? Simulated sentience, lifelike skin, realistic hair?”

“That is correct.”

“Hm.” There’s a momentary pause. Karkat turns, casting his gaze briefly to Dave, who is currently toying with an old holographic cube display. “Anything else?”

“He’s worked with the government before. Formerly an employee of the Robotics Council.”

Karkat rolls his eyes. “Oh, those fuckers who go around auditing random androids because they just don’t like them? Must be a real charming person.”

“Truly.” Kanaya’s tone is, as it often is, closed off. “I’ll send you along a few interesting notes, too. It seems Scratch is actually the son of another, similarly notable Scratch. His father was a robotics pioneer, part of the Dorian Group.”

“You say that, as if I should innately understand this nonsensical combination of things that are colloquially known as words, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The Dorian Group was a study, funded by the Department of Lifetime Quality, into viable options for continued comfort in advanced age. I don’t know if that means much, but it’s interesting.”

“It is,” admits Karkat. His brows furrow, and he begins pouring himself a mixed drink. He opts for his usual, a Paloma, which he prepares while speaking. “Has Rose revealed any additional information? This clueless windbag is about as insightful as a sand-filled telescope.”

Kanaya chuckles. “Yes. She has relayed to me that she recalls that, on the day she died, she remembers seeing a large amount of police at the park. She and Dave thought it odd, but figured there was an event occurring, such as a large relay.”

“Why, then, did it take so fucking long to find anything out about the case? Their bodies weren’t found for..”

“Two weeks,” Dave calls out, smirking.

A low growl escapes Karkat. “Yeah. Two weeks.”

“That’s a mystery we will be having to solve, now, isn’t it?” There’s a faint hint of a smile in Kanaya’s voice.

Deep within Karkat, something stirs. It’s a familiar feeling, one that hasn’t been present for some time. It’s an excitement—a taste for a puzzle that no one else could solve. There’s an inherent thrill to every good case, and it’d be a cold day in hell before Karkat would ever be able to admit there’s nothing interesting about this case. He, too, finds himself smiling. “The team’s back together, then, I fucking guess.”

“Oh, of course,” reassures Kanaya. “Let me know when more information turns up.”

“You bet I will,” Karkat laughs. He taps on his watch’s screen, and the call ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was typed on mobile, so please let me know if there are any typos or weird autocorrects. Thanks!


	10. For tonight I’m all alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **31 March 2130:** Information is hard to come by, and reliable sources might as well be fucking cryptids. Usually, there's some sort of baseline, a footing I can start with, but this case is just about as straightforward as a goddamned U-turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this song is a line of an English translation of Kyu Sakamoto’s [Sukiyaki](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C35DrtPlUbc) (or _Ue o Muite Arukou_ ).

The wind is cool and stiff. It’s strong enough to easily push over a small child, but not sufficient as a means of cooling unseasonably warm temperatures. Not that seasons have much meaning. For decades, seasons are just loose definitions of vaguely related temperatures. The air, itself, is so humid that it’s oppressive. It’s as if it presses against lungs and strips the air of its lifegiving power.

Karkat isn’t wearing his jacket. Instead, he wears a pair of grey slacks and a button up shirt. The sleeves are rolled up, revealing arms that aren’t quite muscular, but are lean enough to show their functionality. An energy pistol is visibly hanging from his belt, alongside his license to carry it.

“You can look pretty damn intimidating if you want to,” Dave comments, standing a few feet away. He refused to dye his hair, opting, instead, to conceal his identity with sunglasses and a large, wide-brimmed hat. If it weren’t for the visible robotic workings of his exposed false arm, it would be a fairly convincing disguise.

“And you still look the perfect part of the fool,” Karkat counters. He remains as he is, leaning casually against a decorative concrete pillar near the entrance of one of the city’s many high rise office buildings. He fiddles with his phone, then speaks, under his breath, “Sollux, what am I looking for?”

“You want a signal that matches the broadcasting output I originally deactivated in Dave’s programming,” responds a familiar, lisping voice. “The briefcase will relay you information, if it finds it, of course.” Karkat can hear the man pushing his glasses up; it’s in his tone.

“Alright. Thanks.” A sigh accompanies the end of the call. Karkat hugs his briefcase to his chest and sits on a nearby bench, alongside Dave, who has already taken up residence.

At the same time, the other man speaks up. “Do you actually enjoy your work?”

Karkat pauses. He’s never actually considered the question before. Sure, there’s the thrill of it all; there’s the heart pounding moments of danger and discovery, but those are rare. “Really?” he mumbles, staring at the clasps of his case, “It’s not what I wanted to do.”

“Well, what did you want to do?” Dave asks, still staring blankly into space.

Again, there’s a pause. Eventually, Karkat admits to his past, something that only a few people have been lucky enough to know. “I used to be a school teacher. I taught history, specifically late pre-warning era. The late twentieth and early twenty-first century years were my specialty.”

Dave nods. “Neat. So, why do you stay in detective work?”

“The firm is my dad’s. He... uh... I’ve told you the story, so I don’t feel like hashing our that rotten heap of earth-bound produce, but it’s a family obligation. I guess I could always hand it over to Kanaya, at some point, but...” Karkat finds himself trailing off. He glances ahead, at the unyielding wall of glass, stretching far into the sky, and spanning the width of a whole city block. All of Skaia is like this. The city blocks are as personable as a plain wall of steel. They kneel to no one, not even the forces of nature. There’s a sense of loneliness, suddenly. It’s a poignant unease, which creeps into Karkat’s soul and festers, like an open wound.

Perhaps Dave notices, or, maybe, his ramblings just make it appear like that. “The world’s a funny as fuck place, huh?” The fingers of his false arm twitch, and he offers a slight grimace. “Jesus. Is something buzzing?”

Karkat looks down, only to see a flashing message on his watch. A signal has been detected. The origin point is nearby, but the software is unable to properly pinpoint the exact location. He makes a few attempts to recalibrate the signal, but is unable to extricate more information.

“You can hear it, too, right? I’m not losing my goddamned marbles?” Dave’s commentary goes unnoticed.

Instead, Karkat is focused on a man—tall, slender, pale, and bald—who walks by, hunched over, with a large bundle of files under his arm. He mutters to himself, his voice muffled by a thick London accent, and looks around, warily, as if looking for someone.

Unconsciously, Karkat moves over, so that he physically blocks the man’s view of Dave. Under his breath, he offers a harsh whisper, “Don’t say anything. For five goddamned minutes, Strider, you have to shut the fuck up.”

An already oppressive atmosphere grows overpoweringly exigent. Every tiny sound—the soft rustling of Dave’s breathing, and the beating of his own heart—echoes in Karkat’s ears.

After a few minutes, the man shakes his head. He turns, then disappears down the busy street.

As Karkat breathes a sigh of relief, Dave speaks up. “That was him,” he says, reaffirming Karkat’s suspicions. “That was the fucker, who kept me in his lab.”

“So, we have a face for the client,” Karkat muses. “I guess he works here.” Looking up, he can see the name of the building, emblazoned on its side in sheet metal: McCoy Innovations.

From what he knows, the company is a huge cybernetic innovator. They’re known for their lifelike household androids, affectionately marketed as “‘Roids: The all-around butler you’ll only ever pay for once!” Lifelike and packed with features, they’re usually only reserved for businesses and the extremely wealthy. The company has been doing wonderfully, at least as far as Karkat has heard. In fact, they were recently in the headlines for integrating their recently bought out competitor, Hatfield Home Electronics, into their main company. No layoffs. Not that it means much to Karkat. No, all of that is just flavor text. In the grand scheme of things, it’s just more jumbled information. More strings in an already complex web.

“Oh. The buzzing stopped.” Dave blinks.

Karkat looks to his watch, which now displays a new message: Signal out of range. He jots this down in his notebook, then turns to Dave. “I guess we have everything we’ll get from here. There’s a holobar down by the bus stop, on the way back to my house. We could swing by there before we trudge back to the shithole apartment.”

“What the literal shit is a holobar?”

“Oh.” It occurs to Karkat that Dave is around seventy years behind on technology. “It’s uh... It’s a fucking portmanteau of holographic and bar. It’s a sort of sports bar, I guess. The sports are projected around you, real time. Right now, the big thing is hockey.”

“You’re into that sort of suit?” Dave asks, burying his hands in his pockets.

“Not really, but their food isn’t godawful shit, like a lot of the places around here. They have good seasoning and spice.” Before he continues, Karkat uses his phone to check his bank balance. Right now, he’s running low, but he has enough; he’ll need to pursue some late payments.

Dave, meanwhile, nods. “So, it’s a date?” he smirks.

Karkat shakes his head. “No. Absolutely not. I’m taking you to eat, so you don’t starve, and you’ll repay me by not asking that bullshit question again.”

“Sheesh. Under-fuckin’-stood, you crabby bastard.” There’s a subtle hint of hurt in Dave’s voice, as if he’d thought that the response would be different. Why that would be, however, is beyond Karkat’s deductive abilities.

 

The bar has been here for as long as Karkat can remember. Milestone is a central hub of sorts, a place for people of various walks of life to gather. Right now, the game between the Skaia Storms and the Waveside Windshears is being broadcast. The tables are all clustered around the perimeter of the bar, with the only thing anywhere near the middle being the bar, itself. People watch the realistic projection, suitably scaled to fit within the bar's designated projection area, with frenetic energy.

Honestly, as far as Karkat is concerned, sports aren't really his thing. Hockey is one of the few he can stand; football, he despises. He's a bit of a regular here, so he doesn't need to place an order. Instead, he sits, and his usual—a nice, stiff ale—is brought to him. He also places an order for apple cider and chicken wings.

The air within the bar is dense with smoke. Now, technically, smoking inside public spaces is illegal, but no one is going to stop it. This is a private business, not a government office, and Karkat isn't interested in catching pretty crimes. In fact, not so long ago, Karkat would have joined in. Now, he simply pops a stick of nicotine gum into his mouth.

“I guess some things don't change,” Dave comments, staring intently at the projections in the middle of the room. “Hockey's still a thing, at least.”

“Sports are a human constant,” Karkat mumbles, paying little attention to the conversation.

“I guess so.” From Dave, there's a nonchalant shrug. He takes a few sips of his drink, then scans the room. “Chicken wings are also still a thing, so mark that as fuckin’ solid.”

A small huff. Karkat turns, so that he's facing away from Dave. He's had enough of the talkative, mysterious man for the time being. Right now, he just wants some time to relax.

Dave, however, seems about as receptive to this social cue as the average rat would be to rat poison. “I guess we haven't learned much today. I mean, we  _have_ , kind of, but it's not really useful shit. We don't have anything substantial to nail on the wall and point to, and say, ‘Ah, fuck there's the goddamned answer to our problems.’” There's an oddly serene look on the man's face, one that's unnervingly disconnected from the palpable frustration in his words. “You know what fuckin’ sucks about this whole thing, though? The real kick in the plush, robust ass? Yeah. That'd be the fact that I don't even know what the fuck I'm doing here. I mean—”

“My fucking God, you dense, porous-brained bastard, can you shut up for two minutes!?” Karkat snaps.

Dave's expression falters. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”

Already—and, in fact, even as the words left his mouth—Karkat feels guilty. He's fully aware that, technically, Dave is a client. There's no reason for him to be attached to him in any way that even borders on personal. He knows he's a bit of a big talker. He's known for his hard-hitting interrogations, but, when all the circumstantial animosity and forced aggression is gone, there's always been a part of Karkat that resents his personality. He never  _wanted_ to be this coarse, this abrasive, it's just how he's let the world shape him. “No,” he says, drowning the churning in his stomach with a sizable gulp of his drink, “My apology, this time. I'm just... I don't know. I guess I'm burned out from all this bullshit.”

“That's understandable,” concedes Dave. He pauses. There's a moment of uncertainty, during which he gazes deeply into his drink, as if it holds the answers he's looking for. Then, without warning, he groans. He hunches over the table, covering his head and ears. “Fuckin’ shit. I can't already have a hangover headache, can I?”

“You've barely had anything to drink. I doubt it's that.”

Dave sits upright, his movements jerky and swift, and his eyes widen, revealing the red lights at the center of his pupils. “Unknown signal detected. Error code R-three-three-four.”

“Oh. Jesus. Not now.” Karkat stands, doing his best to make the scene playing out look inconspicuous. He grabs Dave's wrist, and drags him from the bar. There's a flash of light, a sort of metallic glimmer, but he disregards it as a holographic fluke. Right now, he's focused on removing both himself and a very, very illegal variety of android from an extremely public space.

“Control of unit is being transferred. Please hold.” It takes a great deal of effort to move Dave. His muscles are tense, and his body seems to be actively resisting any attempts to move it.

Karkat, realizing that there's no way he'll make it all the way to the apartment, makes a split-second decision. He heads for the bathroom, and locks both himself and Dave inside. (At the Mainline, the bathrooms are spacious single occupant rooms.) He dials Sollux, and breathes a sigh of relief when the ringing on the other line gives way to a familiar voice.

“Karkat? Anything new?”

“Yeah, there's... uh... Error R-three-three-four. I don't know what that means.” Though he does his best to keep his voice low, it's more akin to the average person's regular volume.

And, from Sollux, there comes a thoughtful hum. “I don't know what it is, either, KK. I don't have a manual for this thing.”

“Dave,” Karkat corrects, “His name's Dave. Just... He's saying that control is being transferred.” Karkat pauses. He looks, now, to Dave, studying the vacant look on his face. “He's like the most fucking realistic mannequin at the mall of the fucked up and bizarre, Sollux. I—”

At this exact moment, time seems to suddenly slow; yet, at the same time, it accelerates. It's a feeling Karkat knows well. It's the pounding of an adrenaline-fueled heart and the sudden, keen awareness of everything surrounding him. He sees, first, the knife—held loosely in Dave's right hand—and, then, the movement. It's too swift to dodge, and, perhaps, that's due to the fact that Dave isn't fully human.

Despite the fact that it's little more than a butter knife, enough force is applied for it to inflict a moderate wound. Karkat moves instinctively, and the wound ends up traveling diagonally, from left to right, across his exposed forearm. If he hadn't made some attempt to block it, he's certain it would have been across his neck. Not that it matters if it had been; while painful, it wouldn't have been fatal.

“Strider, what the literal fuck are you doing!?” Karkat pins Dave against the wall, and it takes all his strength to keep the man from moving.

“Signal quality is compromised. Connection is no longer stable. Please check input frequency. Unit will now shut down.” With this, the light in Dave's eyes suddenly extinguishes. His muscles relax, and he goes limp.

Karkat, meanwhile, stands in the middle of a public bathroom. After propping Dave up against the wall, he wraps his wound in what he can find—toilet paper and towels, mostly. “Okay, well,” he says, now addressing an audibly distressed Sollux, “He went berserk. I'm fine. Don't worry your goddamned lisping ass off about it. Just... Look into it. You have a copy of the code, right?”

“Yeah,” Sollux responds, a frown obvious in his tone. “I'll do that.”

“Thanks.” Karkat flexes his fingers. There's no nerve damage, and the wound is fairly shallow. It'll heal with some stitches, and he can do those himself, at home. So, for now, he shoulders Dave's weight. He quickly formulates a story. This was nothing more than a standard, drunken brawl.

Not that he really needs the story. No one pays attention to the departing pair, even after they've left the bar. Apathy is the standard; the story was little more than an extra precaution.


	11. Nobody knows your heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **1 April 2130:** I've contacted the rest of the team and informed them of what's happening. It's the usual gathering of dimwitted bastards. Well... Not quite. I didn't tell Terezi. Nothing against her, I just don't trust her to keep the secret from Vriska. Kanaya is obviously more than happy to help. From what I understand, she and Rose have really hit it off. Sollux is a completely different story. I mean, I can't say I don't understand his apprehension...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from the dubbed version of the [Princess Mononoke theme song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5JySENuZ8Jc). It's one of the few dubbed songs I enjoy in the Ghibli films. The original (or, at least, a version of it...), _Mononoke Hime_ , can be found [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cS9LnZGkfW4)!

Dave wakes slowly, in a process that’s as intriguing to watch unfold as it is disturbing. He stirs, at first, very rarely. His fingers twitch; the light on his spine flashes red, sometimes blue; and his right arm seems more willing to waken than the rest of him. It’s as if his mind is stifled beneath layers of artificial enhancements.

From time to time, he lets forth sharp yelps of pain, often when the lights along his spine are red. What it means is beyond Karkat’s field of expertise. Sollux says it’s simple recalibration, and that no legal android—nothing fully artificial—should be able to feel it. In his sleep, he mutters to himself. He grasps at the air, as if drowning, and clutches his head.

“I don’t want to... do... that...” are the first words Karkat hears from the man. They’re a mixture of his usual voice and the synthetic tones of his service announcements. “I... Why am I doing this?”

“Dave?” Karkat, unable to sleep for the past eight hours or so, yawns. He nudges the other man’s shoulder. “Strider?”

Dave’s eyes flutter open. He looks, first, to the gauze secured around Karkat’s forearm, then, to his own hands. “I... Did I do that?” he asks, sounding a lot like a curious child. He reaches out, as if to touch the bandaging.

Instinctively, Karkat withdraws. “It’s fine. Not the worst shit I’ve ever dealt with.”

“I’m sorry,” Dave mumbles, his gaze locked on the floor. “I... Should I leave?”

“Of course not, you festering pustule of an idiot. Why would you do that?”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Dave explains, his voice uncharacteristically tense. “I... I fuckin’ swear, dude, I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to. I just... that wasn’t me.”

“I understand,” Karkat reassures. Of course, he doesn’t understand, not really, but he can sympathize. “Do you need a beer?”

“Might be useful.” Dave rolls his shoulders. From his right arm comes a loud pop, followed by a stifled groan. He covers his eyes, trying to hide his emotions. “Ah. I just remembered why it sucks being alive again. Everything hurts.”

Karkat offers his hand, then gently lifts Dave into a sitting position. “Okay, this is going to sound incredibly fucked up, but can you take off your shirt?”

Dave laughs. It’s a nervous, awkward sound. There’s no joy to it, only a heavily masked sense of unease. “I... Why?”

“Your fucking robot spine has been flashing red all night. I’m going to see if I can do anything to fix it.”

“Jesus,” Dave grumbles. He complies, nonetheless, and removes the shirt, revealing scarred, pale skin. Like his arms, the surface is crisscrossed with wires. A clear opening, about the size of a large apple, at the center of his chest, reveals a heart that clearly isn’t natural. Surgical scars form a topography of unspoken horrors. He, however, is unfazed by it all. Instead, he’s focused on something entirely different. “You’re so goddamned nice, and what did I do? I fuckin’ stabbed you.”

Karkat, after getting over the initial shock, takes a deep breath in. He runs his fingers down the length of the exposed metal casing, its edges blending with skin. It pulses red, then orange, then back to red. He opens a page online, one detailing problem shooting for things, such as this, and studies what’s before him. “It’s not your fault,” he says.

Dave let’s forth a whimper. Again, he laughs, but it comes out as more of a strangled sob. “I’ve got, like, two people who give a damn about me, and I cut one of them open like a fuckin’ postal delivery. I must be the most certifiably shitty person on the planet.”

“You’re not.” Karkat pauses. Following the instructions, he runs his fingers along the right side of the spine’s central ridge. He locates a small pinhole, and finds a pen that will fit into it. “I’m going to warn you now. Take a few deep breaths.”

“Why?”

“I’m resetting your entire nervous system, stupid, what do you think?” The words are harsher than Karkat means for them to be, and his grip on his pen is harder than it should be. He waits, only going after an affirmative signal is given.

And, in that moment, it dawns upon him that this truly is a living, feeling being. He’d known it; he’d always known it. But, now, he understands. He sees the look of horror in Dave’s eyes, the realization that his body is at the mercy of a myriad of machines. The weight of the man’s entire upper body leans against him, and it remains that way until the green line begins to creep up the artificial spine.

Slowly, movement returns. Dave gasps for air, sputtering and coughing. “I... My God. What am I?” He asks.

And, for the first time in a long while, Karkat can’t answer. He can’t even hazard a guess. The best scenario is that Dave is a cyborg, but his body borders on being too far gone to be natural. It begs the question of whether or not Rose is like this, too, though it seems she’s more out together. If that’s that case, whoever is producing these is getting better.

“Look, nothing personal, but I'm just going to... Uh...” Dave fumbles. After redressing, he grabs his shades. Once they're in place, a modicum of composure seems to materialize within him. “There's a guest room, right?”

“Yeah.” Karkat pauses. He considers the words, then offers an alternate solution. “I'll just leave for a bit. I'll take a walk through the park, shove my nose in some of the dying flowers. How about that?”

“That sounds good. Not that I want to kick you out of your own house, but...” A hoarse laugh escapes Dave. He rubs his hands together, wringing them and twisting them, as if he wants to keep himself from doing anything else. “I just don't feel entirely... I guess... ‘Normal’ ain't a word I'd be able to use, so, I guess I'm not feeling up to fuckin’ par.”

“That's understandable.” Karkat grabs his briefcase, offers Dave one last glance, and departs.

 

For some time, Karkat occupies himself with the task of bird-watching. He sits, beneath the shade of a towering old oak tree, and gazes up, to the few birds that remain in the city. He wonders how much different life must have been for Dave, seventy years ago. Was nature as rare and hard to come by as it is, now? Were there more birds, more wildlife, more trees? Did the city's smog levels always need to be reported, and did officials on street corners hand out filtering masks for free, as they do now? Sure, he's learned history, but he can never live it; he'll never understand the past.

Unlike yesterday, today's weather is fair. It's not too hot, but there's a distinct, sticky humidity in the air. Pollution tints the clouds a hazy, muddy brown.

This is the first time that Karkat has stopped in the past few days, and it's the first time he begins to fully digest what it must be like to be Dave. Alone, unsure of the world around him, and distrusting of his own mind. It's an existence that Karkat would never wish upon anyone, especially not someone like Dave. In fact, the longer he dwells on the topic, the angrier he becomes.

What sort of person would do this to another? What's the point? Cybernetic modifications are legal, but mind uploading and the transferring of consciousness was banned years ago. Everything that's been done to Dave is illegal, and, at least according to Sollux, some of the work is fairly shoddy. What function would it all serve, anyhow?

Somewhere, in the distance, there's music. Someone is playing a violin. It's a soft, soulful song, a melody that Karkat is unfamiliar with, but one that evokes a reaction, nonetheless. There's a poignant sorrow to the tune. It hangs in the air, weighing it down, and doing nothing to improve Karkat's mood.

Thus, Karkat leaves.

He spends a few hours wandering the city, ducking in and out of cafés and bars. He drinks, until there's a pleasant warmth in his body and a lightness in his head. Then, as the sun begins to set, he returns to the apartment.

There, he finds Dave, asleep, on his sofa. The man's brows are furrowed, and his mutterings seem to indicate that his sleep isn't peaceful. Several empty beer cans litter the ground around him, and his breath reeks of alcohol. It doesn't take much to figure out what happened. Karkat, however, doesn't judge. Rather, he retrieves a blanket from his room and throws it over the sleeping man. Then, he retreats to his room.


	12. Reasons for me to find you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **3 April 2130:** The past few days have been uneventful. Dave has withdrawn from social contact, and speaks rarely. Not much new information has come to light, even from Kanaya's end. Early yesterday morning, he produced another error message, C12, and his artificial arm ceased normal function. I've done what I can, but I'm not a fucking robotics expert; that's Sollux. My main efforts have been focused on easing discomfort. He's complained of severe pain in the affected arm, so I've given him painkillers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from Steve Conte's [_Call Me_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YqA0VQwwPaI), from Cowboy Bebop.

Sollux arrives early, his supplies stuffed haphazardly in the bulky bag over his shoulder. There's an air of unease in his slouching stance, and a wariness to his gaze. When he speaks, his voice is laced with suspicion. “You know, considering this thing fucking attacked you, I wouldn't be too keen on being all buddy buddy with it, KK.”

Karkat, still standing in the doorway of his apartment, offers a harsh shush. “You don't need to be so fucking loud about it, you know. I get it. You don't trust him, and, really, I probably shouldn't, either, but there's something to all of this.” Now, having said his piece, he steps aside. “Just try and act like you can tolerate him, okay? Poor bastard's already on edge, we don't need him knowing the guy in charge of repairing him hates his guts.”

“Fair enough.” Tan fingers comb through stubbornly straight, black hair. Behind a pair of red and blue lenses, brown eyes fall upon the subject.

Dave sits on the sofa, with a look of unparalleled apathy on his face. His right arm is held in a makeshift sling, which Karkat made out of a large bath towel. The fingers continue to twitch erratically, and the sound of grinding gears rises from his hand.

Upon entering, Sollux offers little more than a cordial nod. He opens his bag and begins working, starting with a cursory examination. “Damn, this thing is a piece of shit,” he mutters, “I'd be pretty fucking hard pressed to even call this a low end prosthetic.”

“Really?” Karkat moves, so that he's behind Sollux. “When I first saw it, I assumed it was mid tier.”

Sollux rolls his eyes. “Nah. They recalled these years ago. The nerves have a tendency to glitch out, and the motors aren't very durable.” With a few deft movements, he pops open the bulk of Dave's forearm. He removes his usual shades, replacing them with some magnifying glasses. As he prods about, he continues his commentary, “Yeah. Dead motors. A few broken control chips. I could fix all of this, but it wouldn't really be worth it.”

“What do you suggest, then?” asks Karkat.

“Total replacement. I know some people. Namely, I know Vriska. That bitch can get her hands on anything she wants, and no one gives a damn. We both know that.” The statement is spoken with a mix of bemusement and disdain. “Considering you're my boss, I won't charge you for the work.”

“And since when have you been a certified doctor?”

Sollux laughs. “I'm not, but I work with this sort of shit. I know how it works, and I know how to connect them. That's all you really need. The mounts are straightforward, made to automatically configure to fit the limb, so that's no problem.”

“How long would it take?”

“A week, and that's the worst version. My realistic estimate? Probably two days.” The glasses are once again swapped out. With his usual pair on, Sollux somehow seems more familiar, more personable. He connects a wire to the device behind Dave's ear, and opens the data on his computer. “I'll run some diagnostics while I'm here. No use wasting a trip. Any other issues, Dave?”

There's a flicker of recognition, a raised brow, and a disinterested shrug. He cradles his right arm with his left, watching, with visible fear, as the hand begins shaking. His interest in the topic of discussion is lost.

Karkat fills the silence. “He's been out of it lately. Maybe it's just emotional, but he's not acting like himself.”

“You've known him for, what? A week? How would you know what his normal is?” counters Sollux. There's not animosity in his voice, but, to Karkat, it feels like an attack.

“Besides Rose, I know Dave better than anyone else. Even Rose says his lack of chattiness is out of character.”

A flicker of a smirk crosses Sollux's features, and a soft snort of laughter precedes his deadpanned response. “Fair enough. If the sister says it's weird, it's weird, but nobody really knows who, or what, this guy is.”

Karkat pauses. He knows the words are true. His perceived familiarity with Dave is little more than a scratch on the surface of a stone. Still, he feels a definite sting from this, from the truth. “I... I mean... We fucking don't, but...” he trails off.

Dave, meanwhile, is hunched over, his knees pulled tight to his chest. His gaze is locked on nothing in particular, and his expression is as enigmatic as his past.

The sound of clacking keys and digital cues fills the air, interrupted only by sporadic hums of interest from Sollux. It's an uncomfortable, weighty atmosphere, one that Karkat is more than relieved to feel break apart once the tech support of the team begins to speak. “The data I've got shows that he's overloaded. There's too many emotions, or something like that, for the processor to handle. There's not really a way for me to fix that. He's running only the essential functions, now, and I'm willing to guess he'll keep doing that until he's resolved whatever it is that's bothering him.”

Karkat sighs. Admittedly, he's missed Dave's constant chatter. Hearing that there's nothing that can be done is disheartening, to say the least. “Can you tell what's bothering him from the data?”

“I'm not a therapist, KK.”

“A good thing for everyone,” counters Karkat, smirking.

Sollux grins. He punches Karkat's shoulder before beginning to pack his supplies. “The records are showing some radio interference, from an unknown source, happening at random times. It looks like that might have been the cause of the bar incident, so it wasn't Dave's fault.”

“Yeah, I figured at much. We can't block the signal?”

“It's multiple different signals, so it'd be pretty much impossible.” Sollux shrugs. He places a hand on Karkat's shoulder and meets his gaze. When he continues, his voice is hushed, “Look, Dave might be the nicest guy on the planet. From what I know, he's fairly harmless, but it's easy as shit for Scratch, or whoever it is who's interested in him as a specimen, to take control back from whatever sentience there is. I'd stay on my toes, if I were you.”

The joviality Karkat had felt moments before dissipates. He moves Sollux's hand away. “Yeah. I've got that much.”

Karkat prepares to say more, only to interrupted by the arrival of the mail. He takes the excuse to remain silent, and begins to make his way to the freshly dropped off envelopes, all carefully wrapped in twine, as is the building's policy. He's about halfway there when Dave speaks up.

“Don't open it.”

“What?” both Karkat and Sollux say, in unison.

“I know this will sound batshit,” Dave mutters, eyeing the parcel warily, “But it's giving off some fucked off readings. There's something in there.”

Sollux and Karkat both stare at one another, their faces mirror images of skepticism.

Nonetheless, as the final decision maker, Karkat chooses to follow Dave's instruction. He steps back, his hands raised. “Fine. I won't touch it. What should I do?”

Dave rises from his spot on the sofa. The length of time he's spent sitting is evident, as he's left a notable indent in the cushions. (Fortunately, a quick reprogramming of the sofa's configuration parameters will fix this.) Without any evidence of fear, he approaches the wrapped bundle of letters. His gaze settles upon a small box, wrapped in nondescript brown paper. “You order any items recently?”

“Nope.”

Dave wastes no time. He scrambles to the kitchen, and begins rifling through pots and pans. Eventually, he pulls out a sturdy steel box, once a drawer, repurposed as a recipe holder, and dumps out its contents. As Karkat holds his tongue, Dave returns to the package. In one fluid movement, he gives the package a sturdy kick and drops the drawer on top. A loud pop comes from beneath the makeshift shield. “There.” He stands, a bit shakily, and wipes his one functional hand on his pants. “It's done.”

“Shit.” Sollux shies away from the chaos. “You have a fire extinguisher in here, right?”

Karkat gestures to a structure pillar, on which he's always kept the extinguisher mounted.

Dave lifts the box.

Sollux puts out the smoldering remnants of a package bomb.

“There.” Dave pauses. “We're even.”

“What?”

“I saved your life, so we're even.” He offers a small smile, one that isn't entirely joyful, but it's far more sincere than any he's shown in the past two days. “Shit, that feels better. My brain's been, like, self destructing the fuck out of itself.”

“Okay, well, the overloading problem is fixed,” Sollux mumbles. “And, yeah, I guess you did save my boss' life, so I have to say we're even, now, too.”

Karkat, in spite of his usual professionalism, finds himself smiling, too. There's a sense of ease, now, between the three men. The tensions from before have dissipated and, above all, Dave seems to be back to normal. Or, at least, what he knows as normal.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he recognizes this feeling. It's something he hasn't felt in years, a part of himself that he's repressed for far too long. It's a fluttering in his stomach, and a weightlessness in his heart. It's a drive, a need to protect Dave from everything that's gone so wrong in his life. He knows it's wrong, and that it's against everything that he should be in his profession. Yet, somehow, he can't help himself.

“Look, KK, I'm sorry,” says Sollux, now standing beside his longtime friend. “Just be careful.” He offers a firm pat on Karkat's back. Before any response can begin, he shoulders his bag and departs, carefully skirting the charred spot on the floor.

Karkat, meanwhile, approaches the ashen remains. He digs through it, picking out scraps and important documents. Most of them are bills, though some are correspondence from old and new clients. He notes the few addresses he can make out, as he'll have to mail them back to ask them for another copy. Not that many people still use handwritten notes.

“It was a sloppy bomb,” Dave supplies, standing above Karkat. His free hand is in his pocket, and he leans casually against the doorframe. “Don't know if that's a thing that helps, knowing that, but it wasn't a great attempt. Wherever it came from, they didn't account for me, at least. That shit was practically steaming in its own uber flammable aura. My sensors picked it up immediately, so...”

“I'm just glad you're feeling better, Strider,” Karkat answers, trying (and failing) to keep his tone professional. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Another small smile.

A pleasant warmth flows through Karkat, filling his mind. It's a peace he hasn't known for some time. It's a sensation that, when Dave's smile fades, he finds himself craving. He wants nothing more than to experience it again and again, to take it in with all of his being. It's something that should be bringing him joy, but, in this exact moment, it instills within him only a gnawing sense of fear. He's already lost his family, and he's not willing to lose someone else. Not now.

“Yeah. Uh. I'm going to go walk, think some shit out. You okay here, by yourself, for a few hours?”

“Totally fine, dude,” Dave gestures to the door. “Go on ahead. Live your life, bro.”

Karkat nods. He says nothing more, and departs from his apartment. He takes the elevator, and, on the way down, he calls Kanaya.

There's no answer. Instead, he gets her voicemail greeting, now featuring playful banter from Rose.

He sighs, and hangs up.


	13. This season would come around again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **4 April 2130:** I've researched and studied everything I can find on Scratch. Nothing much is available. At least, nothing _new_ is available. He's a real mystery, but he's definitely an influencer. He's got ties with the government, the military, and a handful of prominent celebrities. He's a man with a foothold in the world, and, maybe, people know about his experiments. If that's the case, there's a much, much larger problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from the English translation of [_Garnet_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XZHSh_XoUIc), from The Girl Who Leapt through Time.

It’s easier for Dave to blend in wearing the sling. It allows him to wear a short sleeved shirt, at least, since the fabric covers most of his false arm. As such, Karkat has arranged to meet Kanaya and Rose at a nearby café.

When they enter, Kanaya and Rose are holding hands. It’s a stark reminder of Karkat’s own feelings, and he does his best to ignore it. Instead, he scrutinized every word the siblings exchange.

“You look like you just got out of one with Bro,” comments Rose. “What happened to your arm?”

Dave lifts the sling, only enough to briefly shed light on the inner workings of his arm. Then, he drops it back in place. He offers a dark smile, and his response is somber, “I’m not as well put together as you. Never have been. Sure as fuck ain’t, now.”

Rose nods. “Does it hurt?”

As if on cue, Dave’s arm spasms. It shakes, and his fingers contract. He speaks through gritted teeth, “Yeah. Like a kid took a rogue bowling ball to me. The neighbor next door, y’know, little Bobby? That little twat just slammed a nice baseball bat right into my arm.” Slowly, the movement stops. His arm stills, and his breathing turns to harsh, but fairly regular gasps. Some sweat clings to his brow. “Obviously, you’re doing better than I am.”

“What can I say? Guilty as charged,” Rose smiles. She glances at the menu, then looks to Kanaya. “Any suggestions, Kan?”

“Kan?” ask both Dave and Karkat.

“Ah,” Kanaya snickers. “I neglected to tell you that I’ve hit it off with Rose.”

“I’ve noticed,” Karkat mutters, dodging any further discussion of the topic. “Any new information?”

“Nothing,” responds Kanaya, her brows pressing together. “Rose has been mentioning memories, but they're not really...”

“They're not all that relevant,” supplies Rose. “I understand who I am, and where I am from, and crucial, self-identifying information, but nothing pertaining to the case at hand. I have no recollection of my murder, nor of the person who perpetrated it. I know only that they were a man, and that he was a bald. I also believe he was Caucasian, but I cannot be one-hundred percent certain about that particular fact. Dave, have you anything to add?”

“Not much, no,” shrugs Dave. The control module behind his ear flashes blue, much to Karkat's interest. (Not that there's any known meaning for this.) “People have been trying to kill us, though, so there's that!”

Kanaya and Rose's replies come at once, simultaneously.

“What the fuck?” utters Rose.

“Exciting,” provides Kanaya.

Dave smirks. “Yeah. Package bomb went off last night. That was pretty interesting, to say the least. Whoever did it wasn't in the bomb industry, though. A real sloppy job.”

“Everyone is fine, though?” Rose asks.

“Oh, fuck, we're all fine. My floor has a nice little scorch mark, now, too! I'm sure the homeowner's association will love to speak to me about that. I already got complaints for noise from the neighbors.” Karkat's response is as cross and cynical as his neighbors. “Anyhow, I got all of here to try and figure some things out. I've printed out some of the photos of the crime scene, so that might help. Are both of you ready to try and figure some of this bullshit out?”

“Of course.” Rose offers a nod.

Dave looks away.

Undeterred, Karkat takes the folder from his briefcase. He slides the first photo across the table.

The scene is grim. Two bodies, both covered by black tarp, lay side-by-side in a densely forested area. Leaves cover the ground, and their inherent slickness indicates that it's rained recently. From beneath one of the tarps juts a skeletal foot; the other foot is covered by a tattered red Converse. (Karkat knows this only from research. The brand and style of said shoe fell out of favor long ago.)

After eyeing the photo over, Dave is the first to speak. “Those were my favorite shoes. Comfiest bastards I've ever known. Cradled my feet like a sweet foot masseuse.”

“That was far more than any of us needed to hear, Dave,” Rose sighs.

Figuring nothing more will come of this, Karkat moves on. The next photo is of a human skull, the top portion missing. Scraps of skin and muscle still cling to it, as do sparse patches of faded blond hair. Sunglasses remain in place, covering empty eye sockets.

Rose looks away.

Dave, however, is more intrigued. He takes the photo into his hand and holds it up, for a better look. “That's me, alright,” he whistles. “It was a quick death, really. Clean shot, bled out within five minutes. No real pain. I guess adrenaline was pumping through me, taking a huge piss on my other senses. I... I remember seeing someone in front of me. Male. Caucasian. Bald, like Rose said. He said something to me...” Another flash of blue behind Dave's ear. He winces and presses the thumb of his good hand against his temple. “I was the future of humankind. Something like that.”

“Can you remember it, exactly?” Karkat presses.

Dave shakes his head. “Damned headache. I... Uh...”

“It's okay if you can't,” Kanaya reassures.

Rose, interestingly enough, has remained silent throughout this. She refuses to look at the photo, and seems reluctant to offer any input. Nonetheless, after a few more seconds, she, too, speaks. “‘You are the future of humankind. In taking your life, I will bring life to millions.’”

“Yeah,” Dave mutters, his voice uncharacteristically soft, “Somethin’ like that...” He returns the photo to the table. “I've got to take a sec’. My head hurts.” He leans back in his seat.

Karkat keeps going. He sets down the next image in the series.

Another skull, with the same odd injury. It's better preserved than Dave's. While a fair amount of skin is missing, the facial structure remains, and there's more hair. Laying beside it is a black headband.

Rose reacts. “And that would be me.” She states this with an unnerving level of apathy. “At least, that  _was_ me. Of course, it is no longer who I am. I have no real recollection of the events, as I have previously said. This photo makes no difference to me.” She pushes the stack of pictures away from her before finishing, “I'm sorry.”

“You're doing great, Rose,” Kanaya reassures. She pats the other woman on the back, and leans against her shoulder.

In the back of his mind, Karkat wonders if he should be doing the same for Dave. His need for the truth wins out, however, and he presents the fourth image.

Hidden amidst the slick foliage and fallen leaves are two bullet casings. The caliber is noted as being 0.357. They've been pulled from the brush and placed on top, for illustrative purposes, alongside a quarter.

“I do remember the gun,” Rose says, still refusing to fully face the photo. “It was an antique pistol, nicely maintained. Whoever our murderer was, he valued it.”

Karkat nods. He prepares to reveal the fifth photo.

Dave, however, interrupts him. He leans forward, glances at the photo, and frowns. “Yeah. Rose sounds... ‘bout right with that...” he pauses twice, catching his breath between words. The light behind his ear is pulsing orange. “I... I can remember something, but I can't make it out. It's like... Ah. Fuck. It's like watching something on television, but the signal is cutting out.” Behind his shades, his pupils widen, revealing the same red pinpoints as usual. His jaw sets. “It's familiar. It's there. There's something there, and it's just fuckin’ begging to come out, but it's not going to.”

“You might want to ease off a bit, Dave,” Rose says, her words thick with worry.

Dave, stubbornly, continues to stare at the photo. There's a trace of recognition on his face, a inexplicable familiarity in the way his brows furrow and his eyes scan the page. Then, as suddenly as it happened, it passes. His face is blank, and the light in his eyes goes out. “I can't remember,” he mumbles. “I'm sorry, y'all, but I just can't remember it.”

“It might be advisable to cease the questioning for now,” Kanaya suggests.

Karkat, in agreement, gathers his materials. “We have some more information, that's all I needed. Thank you both for your help.”

“No problem,” Rose smiles.

Dave shrugs. He leans back, staring idly at the ceiling fan above their booth. “This is just a never-ending parade of bullshit, huh?”

“Feels like it,” Karkat smirks.

At around this time, their orders are delivered.

Everyone eats, enjoying their meal alongside some pleasant conversation.

During this time, Karkat notices what seem to be a million different signs of chemistry between Kanaya and Rose. They share their meals and laugh and joke with one another, as if they've known each other for years. They touch and hug and embrace one another. There's an obvious bond, and it forces Karkat to consider his own relationships.

What friends does he have? He has his acquaintances, and the people he works with, but, upon deeper thought, it occurs to him that his real friendships are few in number. And, perhaps, it's his nature, as a loner. Perhaps, it's his destiny, as a person. Maybe he was born to be alone in this world, living his life with few friends and even fewer people he can truly rely upon.

And, yet, when he looks at Dave, and sees him, relaxed and enjoying himself, he feels otherwise. Perhaps, he was made to be loved. Perhaps, there are people in this life that can and do care for him.

Does he love Dave Strider? Maybe. It's possible. He can't say for sure. Certainly, the tightness in his chest, that he feels when Dave is upset or hurt, is a sign. The fluttering in his stomach and the warmth in his heart, both of those are, too. But, is it real love, or is it just a long forgotten sense of empathy for another person? He can't say.

What he can say is that there is a very good chance that he might be falling for Dave, and there's an equally high likelihood that these feelings will only hurt him in the long haul.

 

Later, after Dave is asleep on the sofa, a single letter is slipped through the mail slot of his apartment door. There is no return address, and it is made out for “Detective S. K. Vantas”. Inside is a typed correspondence. At the bottom, in a rare show of outdated skills, is a flourishing signature for Robert Scratch, MS and ScD. Perhaps it's his inherent dislike and the heavy memories attached to the usage of his first name, but its insistent use doesn't endear Karkat to this particular character.

Investigator Shaan K. Vantas,

First and foremost, I would like to congratulate you on the successful completion of the assignment I had initially given you. Shaan, you have unparalleled skill, and that is obvious. You detained TG413 in far less time than I could have, and without any bodily harm. As a specimen, he is a cunning and deceitful individual. He has thrice escaped my care, and it is only now, this third time, that I was forced to enlist outside help. I must say that I am delighted with the results! You have earned your cut, and I assure you that I will be paying you nicely. I have heard, too, that you have captured TT126. Again, stupendous work. I have fittingly increased your payment. I am currently working on other projects, as previously discussed and will be unable to collect for a further two months. My apologies for the delay. Nonetheless, your paycheck, now valued at one million, is ready for me to provide upon their safe return.

Unfortunately, I do have one small problem with your services, Mr. Shaan. You see, I understand that you have been digging into the past of these two units. This is inadvisable. I have twice tried to deter you, using means that are easily available to me, but it appears that my threats have no dissuaded you. Mr. Shaan, your insistence upon this matter is unsettling, to say the least; at its worst, I might classify this as an obsession. What you will find will be unpleasant not only for you, but also for me, as I will be forced to clean up after you.

Be assured, Mr. Shaan, that I will use all means at my disposal, should you continue meddling where you do not belong. These affairs are not yours to deal in, nor are they within your parameters as an investigator. The job I hired you for is done, and you needn't do any more. You have made with quite apparent that you are a stubborn man, however, and I have thus decided to offer you further incentive than your own life. If you cease this needless prodding, I will be more than happy to increase your payment to an even two million. Consider, if you wish, what you could do with that. Certainly, you'd be able to retire from this cumbersome job, hire a wonderful replacement leader for your late father's company, and return to your dream of teaching! Sounds wonderful, no?

I want nothing to do with any messy matters, and I'm sure you understand. I do not _want_ to have to dispose of you. Your skills in the trade are unparalleled, and you would be missed by many, most of all your employees. Your death would likely weigh heavily on TG413, as well. So, if you will, Mr. Shaan, please give serious consideration to my offer. I hope that our future, for your sake, does not involve another of these letters.

Consider all you have to live for, and whether or not that is worth the life of a being whose existence is dependent upon a long rotted brain within an artificial body. Are you truly willing to sacrifice yourself for the sake of some banal concept of truth? Of course not. You're a much smarter man than that, Mr. Shaan; your career shows as much. I implore you to not waste your own life for that of something no better than every other scrapped, outdated android.

Until Next Time, Mr. Shaan,  
Robert Scratch, MS, ScD

Upon finishing the letter, Karkat balls it up. He briefly lights the fireplace in his bedroom, and tosses the crumpled page into the flames. Once nothing more is left than ash, he extinguishes the fire and begins preparations for bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as per usual, comments and feedback are always welcome! hopefully you liked this little reveal. ;)


	14. To hear sounds of people

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **5 April 2130:** This is deeper than I imagined. There's something more sinister, more fucking twisted, than I could have thought. I'm not sure what to do with it, but someone needs to fix this. I guess that “someone” would be my dumb ass, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the title is from [_Nobody_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AMptW7Ij7CI), by the world's most cybergoth Mitski. I did it. Warning for alcohol use in this chapter, in the second half. If that's not your thing, you can skip it. It's mostly just some character stuff.

Karkat Vantas sits before his desk, staring intently at the images before him. It's late, nearing early morning, and he's yet to sleep. He's spent the entire night researching, digging up as much as he can on Dave and Scratch. He's dug down, deep into the bowels of the web, to find what he can. And, now, it looks as if it's paid off. On a YouTube, he's found an old video, titled “Howard Harrison Interview with Doctor Scratch Senior, June 10th, 2062”.

He has no clue what the video is about, nor what information it may yield, but it's as much of a lead as he has, now. He turns his volume down, so as to not wake Dave, before playing it.

The man in the grainy, old video looks remarkably like what Dave and Rose have described as their attacker. He's pale, bald, and has an ugly mustache. He sits in a shit brown recliner in a way that declares his superiority. His legs are crossed, his hands are folded, and a cocky grin is spread across his face. He speaks with confidence, addressing the talk show crowd with a sort of sweeping, charismatic flair. The text in the corner of the screen addresses him as Doctor Robert Scratch Senior, noting that he is the foremost expert on cybermedical advances.

“It's remarkable, really. Remarkable.” His voice carries a thick London accent. It's nasal and lofty, perfectly fitting his attitude. “Under the Dorian Project, we're making great strides towards the reintegration of technology to heal bodies and brains formerly believed to be irreparably damaged by time. For a price, mind you, it is costly, _but_ for a price you can remain alive for however long you desire.”

The host of the show, a wrinkled, equally pale man, known as Howard Harrison, smiles serenely. “That really is remarkable! You heard it here first, folks, on the Howard Harrison Show! Now, Doctor Scratch—”

“Oh, you may call me Robert,” Scratch interrupts.

“Robert, would you mind telling viewers how this works? What's involved in this remarkable process?”

Scratch pulls out a small item, akin to an old-fashioned USB thumb drive. “It's quite simple. What we do is translate your mind—your memories, thoughts, and who you are—into data. This data is then uploaded and stored, for later use. Right now, we can simulate your consciousness, but we're working on being able to create artificial bodies, capable of holding these memories, so that you may live anew.”

The host nods, intently. “I see. And this process is available to anyone with the funds?”

“Of course! Of course!” Scratch, again, smiles. It's an expression so innately slimy, so deceitful, that it makes Karkat's skin crawl. There's just something strange about it, but what that is... Well, that's beyond Karkat's reach. “Here. I've brought along a prototype.”

For a moment, Karkat pauses. He writes down what he's seen thus far, drawing a quick sketch of the man in his notebook. Then, unprepared for what's to come, he resumes playing the video.

Scratch gestures to the backstage crew. It's an all-encompassing and flamboyant display, made just for an audience.

The crew rolls out a television, one of the older, static types. It's a flat screen, perhaps thirty-two inches, and, upon being turned on, it shows little more than some text:  
“MindScape Memorial & Dorian Project Study  
Demonstration of mind uploading  
Subject 001: Used with consent of generous unnamed donor”

“This is just an incredibly rough demonstration. We haven't ironed out all of the problems yet, you see.” Scratch steps up, beside the television on a cart, and clears his throat. “Hello, Subject Zero-zero-one, how are you today?”

To Karkat's surprise, the voice that answers is familiar. The casually cut consonants; the soft, drawling vowels; it's an accent so familiar, and a tone so distinct that it can only belong to Dave Strider. It's less human than it is, now, less realistic. There's electronic distortion, perhaps caused by outdated voice synthesizing technology, which makes it sound as if the words are being spoken through a fan. Its identity, however, is unmistakable. “I'm doing pretty damn well.”

“Splendid!” Scratch chuckles. “Would you care to tell the audience a little bit about the project?”

“It's nice. The air is warm, but it ain't too warm, y'know? You won't sweat yourself to death here.”

As the audience laughs, Karkat finds that he feels ready to vomit. There's something strange about these responses, something deeper than the lack of Dave's usual phrasing. The voice is strangled, as if it's being controlled, or fed what to say.

“As you can see,” Scratch announces, “We maintain the utmost quality in our simulated realities. Subject zero-zero-one, do you enjoy where you are?”

Now, there's a hint of the real Dave. “I'll send a [censored]in’ postcard, sure.”

Scratch is a bit taken aback, but he regains his composure quickly. Another of his skivvy smiles, and a brief wave to the television precede his next statement. “Thank you! I'll look forward to it. We'll bid you farewell, for now, thank you.”

“No prob,” is the computer's response.

And, at this point, the video ends.

Karkat, thoroughly disturbed by the blatant lies and manipulation he's just seen, leans over. He fumbles with his office trash can, and does exactly what he's been feeling like doing for the duration of the video. He vomits.

* * *

**6 April 2130:** I can't tell Dave about what I've seen. It's just... It was fucked up. I'll keep it to myself. I don't even think I'll tell Kanaya. She doesn't need to hear it, either. I need some time to clear my goddamned mind. A drink, maybe? Perhaps I'll take Sollux up on my offer to take him out to a bar. Yeah. Yeah! That sounds great! Oh, fuck it, I'm talking to an inanimate fucking notebook again.

It's noon, but that doesn't matter. Karkat is buzzed. His body is warm, his mind is at ease, and he's no longer worried about the case that's been plaguing him. He sits, arm thrown casually over the back of the booth, and allows himself the luxury of a boozy smile. He's no fan of hard liquor, but he's also a man with a heft alcohol tolerance. By now, he's downed so many vile vodka mixes that he can't really taste it.

Across from him are two of his small, close-knit group of friends. Of them, Kanaya is the first to speak up. “Karkat, I do believe you've had enough to drink. Any more than this, and you'll be feeling it tomorrow.”

Sollux nods. “I've gotta’ agree with her, this time, KK. You're buzzed off your ass.”

Karkat shrugs. He offers a hoarse laugh, a dismissive wave, and a roll of his eyes. “I'm fine. Don't worry about it. Sollux, you need another beer? Fuck, sure.” With another wave, he summons one of the bar's waiters. He throws a handful of cash onto the table. As the owner and forefront detective of Skaia's biggest PI firm, money isn't hard to come by. Normally, he sticks to his frugal upbringing. When he's drunk, though, he turns into a frivolous spender. “Another rounder for this table.” He pauses, allows the fog in his mind to win over, and laughs. He drops more cash on the table. “Fuck it! Another round for the whole bar!”

From everyone but Kanaya and Sollux, there comes an uproarious cheer.

Kanaya, meanwhile, inches closer to Karkat. In his state of inebriation, she doesn't notice her pickpocketing his wallet. “Someone might be having a bit too much fun, it seems,” she says, her voice soft and sweet in his ear.

Sollux, meanwhile, offers his own take on the situation. “You've seen something, KK. You don't act like this unless you've seen something real, real fucked up.” When another bottle of Old Harbinger arrives, he refuses to open it. Instead, he quietly thanks the bartenders and slips it into his bag. “Spill it.”

Karkat, completely forgetting what he had written in his journal only hours before, freezes. He might have forgotten his own inner monologue, but he hasn't forgotten the video. “Scratch used Dave for public demonstrations, claiming that he was an anonymous donor. So, yeah, I think I can get a little fucked up today, Captor.”

Sollux falls silent.

Kanaya offers a raised brow and a gentle touch on the shoulder. “We're all doing our best to figure this out, Karkat. Why don't we get you out of here?”

“Like fuck I'll leave this place right now! It's great!” Throwing his arms out, and narrowly missing a smack in Kanaya's face (her reflexes are remarkable, really,) Karkat gestures around him. “Amazing atmosphere in here, right?”

Sollux offers a low sigh. He grabs Kanaya's arm and gently tugs at her. “C'mon. No use talking to him while he's like this,” he says.

Kanaya nods in agreement. She offers a smile. There's a certain sadness to it, but Karkat doesn't catch it; no, he's too far gone to recognize it. “You're right. Thank you for lunch, Karkat. I'll catch up with you soon, once you sober up, okay?”

The two begin to depart, only for Sollux to quickly return. He leans across the table and holds out his hand.

Even in his state, Karkat recognizes the meaning of the gesture. A low growl escapes him, and he hands over a rusty, worn out bottle cap. There's a vague sense of shame, a recognition that he's broken a two year streak of avoiding getting this absolutely slammed, but it's heavily masked by the booze. He's never subscribed to the teetotaler model. In fact, he and Sollux collaborated to create what they call the “Bottle Cap Code”. Whenever Karkat gets beyond pleasantly buzzed, he hands the cap over to Sollux; he gets it back when he goes one month without drinking himself into a blackout.

With the cap in his pocket, Sollux departs.

Karkat orders another drink.

 

The next thing Karkat is aware of is a familiar voice, its southern twang like music to his ears. “Hey, first time for me carrying your defunct ass out of somewhere, right? Come on, dude, the frat party's over. Police called your house, hoping someone could come pick your drunk ass up from here.”

Karkat groans. He opens his eyes and sits up, shuddering as he realizes that he's been laying in a film of his own vomit. (Twice in one day. Not quite a record.) “Ah. Fuck. My head.”

“Yeah, don't get blackout drunk, stupid,” Dave says. He smiles, and, like Kanaya's, it's laced with sadness. There's also a sense of familiarity, as if he's seen this before. All of these things are noticed by Karkat, now. “C'mon, dude, you've gotta’ leave. I mean, you can stay, but they're ‘bout ready to arrest your ass, so...”

Another groan. Karkat stumbles to his feet, leaning heavily against Dave. He becomes keenly aware of their height difference, now. “How'd you get out of the apartment? I locked the door.”

“I can pick locks. Not that hard. Modern locks are the same as old locks, unless you just opted not to get some fancy pants eyeball scanning machine.” Dave shrugs. He makes a concerted effort to avoid Karkat's gaze.

“I don't trust biosensors.”

“Fair enough. Let's get you back home, Detective. Can't have you dying of alcohol poisoning on the street, right? That's some real shitty PR.” It's there again, that smile. The sadness is palpable, now, as is, too, a newfound sense of disappointment. Does he know, or is it just a coincidence?

Taking Dave's hand, and briefly blushing at its warmth, Karkat nods. “Yeah. That sounds like a solid as fuck plan.”

The two return to the apartment, whereupon Karkat promptly throws himself into his bed. Once again, he falls asleep. Just before this, however, he feels someone tossing a blanket over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [multilevel marketing diva voice] BIG THINGS ARE COMING!


	15. There’s something between us anyway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **6 April 2130:** Fucking hangover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this one is from Daft Punk’s [_Something About Us_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=em0MknB6wFo). Kind of a departure from the usual music I feature here. For a more traditional noir vibe, try the [_L. A. Noire theme ___](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7bW75OwVXZI) _ _, obviously from the game _L. A. Noire_ , and composed by Simon Hale.__

The headache isn’t as much of an issue as it really should be. No, really, it pales in comparison to the overwhelming heaviness in Karkat’s limbs, and the pounding sense of disappointment in his chest. It’s more a dull ache than anything, something he’s experienced enough times to be able to push it aside.

When he wakes, beneath a thin blanket of silk, upon which is printed a pattern of grey elephants, he finds Dave in his living room, awake. The man is busy fiddling with one of Karkat’s projection cubes, apparently playing a game of holographic minesweeper. Upon noticing Karkat’s entry, however, he stops. A small smile crosses his face. “Oh! Nice to see you’re alive, pal.” He stands, tosses the projection cube into the air, and catches it without much effort. “You don't need any explainin’ about what went down last night, right? I'm pretty sure you've got a nice, tight grasp on the shit that went down.”

“Yup.” Karkat doesn't need a second reminder. He sits up, wincing as the pounding in his head increases.

“Sollux called earlier this morning. He's swinging by today. Y'know, since little gnomes broke into my arm and decided to trash it, like frat boys on a jungle gym graded for use by people thirteen times less than their size? Yeah. That's a thing, but he said he'll give you a few hours to take the ‘hang’ out of your hangover,” Dave continues, cheerfully. “He didn't say it like that, though. I've paraphrased it for you.”

Every word is too loud, and every movement only worsens the discomfort. Karkat gestures for Dave to leave. “Yeah. Wonderful. I'll deal with it. Please get out of my room.”

“You're a helluva lot more polite when you're hungover, my man,” Dave laughs.

Karkat groans. “GET OUT!”

Dave offers a sarcastic two-finger salute, then scuttles out of the room.

 

Even several hours later, two hours after the sun reached its peak in the orange-tinted, smog-hazed sky, Karkat looks far less put together than usual. His face is no longer clean shaven, covered, instead, with a fairly thick distribution of coarse black stubble. (Despite his youth, stress has sprinkled in a few silver hairs, too.) His hair is more disheveled than usual, and the dark shadows beneath his eyes are pronounced. When he speaks, his voice is harsher than usual. The undertone, akin to metal against stone, is gone; now, it sounds more like just stone against stone. “Explain what's up with this technological sorcery, Sollux.”

The other man nods. He adjusts his glasses and smiles, exhibiting the new arm proudly. Obviously, it looks like the limb it's meant to replace, but artificial skin covers the entirety, rather than just the hand. It's a tad tanner than Dave's complexion, but a cursory look wouldn't be enough to tell. At the top is a socket, like a suction cup, imprinted with a dense maze of digital receptors. “Removing the arm is a simple matter. A few screws, and it'll come off. Replacing it will be a bit trickier, as reconnecting the artificial nerves will be uncomfortable, to say the least.”

Dave opens his mouth to speak.

Karkat cuts him off. “Let's get it over with, then.” He drops into a minimalist barstool, which he's pulled around, so that it's beside the sofa.

Dave, too, takes his seat.

The work begins.

Sollux was correct in his first statement. The old arm is held in place with eight screws, placed as if they were at the center of the eight lines of an octagon. Once they're out, the limb falls off. With no power supply, it remains limp on the floor. To put on the new one, the process is reversed. The screws are returned to their proper places, and a wire is connected from just above the elbow to Sollux's computer.

“This arm has a few more features than the other one,” explains the lisping man. “You've got more nerve endings, first of all, so you'll have more tactile feedback. There's added dexterity, and it's, all around, a more lifelike model. You'll lose the more functional additions of the older one, like the palm light, but it does come with the ability to self-diagnose and relay reports when repairs are needed.” Even after he's finished talking, he continues to tap away at his keyboard. It's an old-fashioned physical one, as opposed to modern holographic built-ins. (Karkat remembers when he first asked about these. Sollux's justification is that he prefers the clacking noise, and, considering how valuable he is to the company, Karkat isn't going to argue over the added expense of his odd preferences. What's a few thousand dollars every few years, especially compared to a world-class hacker?)

While Karkat has only been paying minimal attention, his mind still a bit clouded by the events of last night, Dave, obviously, is more attentive. “And what does all of that mean?”

“Really?” There's a moment, where Karkat thinks Sollux is going to snap back with a sarcastic reply. Instead, the man laughs. “Not much, really. Doesn't mean shit.” After this, his tone hardens. “This isn't going to be pleasant, though,” he warns. “I'm going to have to recalibrate your nerve endings, so you'll obviously feel some discomfort.”

“Sure. That's fine.” Dave plays it cool.

Sollux nods. He counts down from three, then presses a button. The holographic display before him suddenly bursts to life, showing a colorful array of graphs and diagrams and readings. Karkat understands none of them, but that doesn't really matter; Sollux knows what he's doing.

Dave, meanwhile, offers a loud yelp. His natural hand instinctively grabs his shoulder.

“Hey! Hey! Hands off of the arm!” Sollux insists, scrambling to reverse the action. “There can't be any outside interference, unless you want to accidentally electrocute yourself! The nerve endings and the biological energy source run on the same grid, so messing up this calibration can fuck up your energy consumption, too.”

Dave relents. He removes his hand, but continues to show obvious signs of discomfort. He's obviously keeping his pain to himself, though, and he's remarkably good at it.

Karkat finds himself drawn to Dave, once again, and he tries his best to distract the man from what's happening. “Are you right handed?” It's a crappy question, and he's aware of that, but it's the most he can think of, in the moment.

Dave reacts with a quirked brow and a soft snicker. “Nah, I'm a lefty.”

“So, you're one of those artsy fuckers?” Karkat quips. “I could hire you to make anime police sketches for the firm, once all of this is over.”

Dave smirks. “Sure. So, the future still has anime, but we don't have fucking _Pokémon_!? What's the goddamned point, then? Hypothetical little Jimmy might get his lessons in global culture from anime, sure, but is he getting his important moral friendship lessons from _Pokémon_!? No, he is not. This future, truly, is the worst.”

“You keep discussing _Pokémon_ , like I should innately understand the sophomoric bullshit, which so freely gurgles from your mouth. Sure, you explained it to me, but it still doesn't make sense.” Lost, as he is, in his conversation, Karkat doesn't notice the smile, which creeps across Sollux's face. The fact that the tech-savvy friend has remained silent also passes by Karkat's attentions. “Look, we have some perfectly good shows in this era, such as  _Age of the Dragons_ , and  _Rise of Kings_. These are all perfectly palatable visual mediums, which everyone very much enjoys consuming.”

In his typical smartass way, Dave offers a coy smile. “So, in the future, people eat their media? How literal!”

“My God, man, you're as dense as the suffocating, toxic brume out that window!” Karkat points outside, to the hazy orange sky, but he can't help but laugh. He's not sure why he's being so loose with his emotions today, why he's allowing his softer side to show so much more than he often allows. Perhaps it's the hangover, or, maybe, it's the presence of a certain someone. “Use the other definition of consume!”

“I'll download the thesaurus,” counters Dave.

“Good! Why don't you rout around in that great, vast web and download a decent personality, too, while you're at it?”

“Oh, and define the perfect personality for you, sweetums.”

Karkat is fully aware of the statement being a joke. He knows it's a friendly jab, that it's not meant to be taken seriously, but there's something about this moment that makes him stop. There's a feeling within him, which begs for him to be honest with himself. What  _is_ his perfect personality? It would be someone he can jive with, someone who recognizes his flaws, but loves him all the same. His perfect someone would be equal parts considerate and insincere, but in a funny way. And, at this moment, it dawns upon him. He opens his mouth, finding it suddenly dry, and prepares to speak the truth, to say, quite frankly, “you”, but he's interrupted.

Sollux wipes the grease from his hands onto his perpetually dirty jeans. He offers a grin, showing off his pointed canines. “We're done! That wasn't too bad, now, was it?”

“Ah. No, not really,” Dave admits, flexing his fingers. He, too, smiles, but it's a more subdued expression. “Feels good, and it works, so that's one point in this thing's favor, already! Does it come with lasers? The ability to shoot webs?” As if to demonstrate, Dave holds his hand out in front of him, miming the action of shooting something from his palm.

Sollux rolls his eyes. “No, it's not Spider-Man, stupid.”

“Oh, I see, so you also still have Spider-Man!?” Dave speaks with an air of convincing faux offense. “What other great media empires survive, while we've killed the only ones that fuckin’ matter!?”

Karkat, despite his grin, ushers Sollux to the door. He knows his friend has other things to do. But, above that, he's become acutely aware of his own feelings, and it's disconcerting. “Ignore his pointles drivel, Sollux. Thank you for your work.” He reaches into his pocket, preparing to pull out his monetary transfer unit, so that he can digitally transfer funds to Sollux.

Instead, the other man grabs his wrist. “No, this one is free.” Another grin—this one wider, cockier. “Use the funds to take Dave on a hot date, huh?”

Heat rushes to Karkat's cheeks. His back stiffens. “Thank-you-very-much-for-your-service,” he says the statement quickly, as a singular word, before attempting to shove his smirking friend out the door. “You can get the fuck out of my apartment, now, Sollux.”

In a show of stunning maturity, the other man responds with kissy lips. “Hey, if it makes you feel any better, Kanaya and Rose are already dating.”

“YOU CAN LEAVE NOW, SOLLUX!” Karkat announces, finally winning the battle to close his own door. He knows that everyone on his hallway heard his outburst, but, right now, his relief overpowers his embarrassment. He returns to Dave.

“That was interesting,” says Dave.

“Yeah.” Without really knowing why, or even noticing that he's doing it, Karkat rubs the back of his neck. “I've got some, uh... There's...” For once, he's at a loss for words. His mind is flooded with thoughts of Dave, of the realization that the feelings he's been tackling are nothing short of pure affection, and it's more than a little distracting. “You like spaghetti?” he finally settles upon saying.

Dave, seemingly unaware of the short circuit, which is currently frying Karkat's brain to a crisp, offers a lopsided smile. “Yeah! Love that shit. God bless the Italians for wheat strings, am I right?”

Again, Karkat's usual composure slips. He smiles, softly, and nods. “I'll get my grandma's recipe out, then. We'll do that for dinner. Sound good?”

“Sounds dope as shit,” Dave offers a thumbs up.

And, with a chest full of warmth, and a mind stuffed with clouds, Karkat waltzes off, his mood giddier than it has been ages, to prepare the meal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DAMN! 50 kudos!? thanks for all the love! ÓuÒ  
> i know this chapter was a little on the shorter side, and it was mostly fluff, but the plot will be returning soon!


	16. Pictures came with touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **7 April 2130:** This case is intriguing, but fuck if I know what's at the bottom of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've always had a soft spot for paul williams, considering he's in my favorite movie, _Phantom of the Paradise_ , so here's one of what will probably be a few shout-outs to him. the lyrics in this title are from _[Touch](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Gkhol2Q1og)_ , a collaboration between Daft Punk and Paul Williams. again, not the usual noir, big-band-jazz-era music of the fic. **UPDATE: Art has been added to chapter two! You can go back to there to see it, or[visit my art blog](https://tt40art.tumblr.com/post/185299577029/just-another-random-homestuck-sketch-if-you-like)!**

Standing before his cork board, Karkat studies his notes. He scrutinizes them, desperate to find an answer—for himself, for Dave, for Rose. His mind flows, churning, like the ocean, as it grasps at all the information. What does it mean? What _could_ it mean? It's all so vague, so abstract. Sure, he has a theory. Any detective worth less than salt would, it's what the job description calls for, but it's also dependent upon  _evidence_. And evidence is what he doesn't have.

In fact, as he looks closer at his notes, he sees it—suddenly, too. Discrepancies, the bane of investigations. They're there plainly, and they've been staring at him for who knows how long. _“How embarrassing,”_ he finds himself thinking, _“To be right on top of this sort of goddamned evidence, but be so polluted by baseless emotion that I couldn't even notice it.”_ As if it will help the ceaseless churning in the pit of his stomach, which it does not, he shakes his head. To distract himself, he reads his notes.

The differences in testimony seem so obvious, and both stem from Rose. One account, the first of the two she has given thus far, relates that she and Dave split up during the hike, and the she had not seen the face of the attacker. However, in Dave's consistent retelling of the events, the two remained together, with Rose placed behind him during the attacks, and the attacker's face was visible. He notes, too, that her recounting of the words spoken to her just before death are slightly different, but that can be waved away by trauma.

He studies, too, a series of news clippings, printed out from Skaia City's lovingly maintained and publicly available database of all newspapers, dating back to its founding, in 2039. He's pinned the collection of pages, totaling three different articles, one on top of the other, to make connecting the dots (quite literally, in the tried-and-true method of winding string around the pins,) easier.

The article on top is the oldest, and simply recounts the founding of the Dorian Project. Its headline brightly declares, **“Skaia City's First Major Scientific Project Begins!”** The date given for the piece is December 24th, 2039, which places the article's publication and content about three months after from the city's founding. The author is listed as J. Astor, an irrelevant fact, but a fact, nonetheless.

“In a groundbreaking ceremony at town hall, near the intersection of 1st and 12th street, a public ceremony was held to commemorate the initiation of Skaia's first major scientific study. The study is funded by a $56.3 million grant, from the ABATA (American Bureau of Aging and Technological Advancement). President Follette, in a recent speech, suggested that the study will ‘advance the understanding of how we, as people, interact with the world’ and that it will be ‘revolutionary’.

“Testing will begin following the Christmas and New Year's holidays, on January 5th, 2040, in the Blanc Memorial Laboratory. The company in charge of the study, locally based SBURB International, has also announced that the public will be welcome on select dates, to come and view the work being done. These dates, which the company calls ‘Public Science Learning Days’, will be listed as soon as they are made available.”

The next article, titled **“Dorian Project Breaking Ground Rapidly”** , was published on November 3rd, 2043. Written by a certain G. Olivier, it has a similarly upbeat tone. Attached it a photo of a wickedly grinning Scratch, shaking hands with Skaia City's then-governor.

“The Dorian Project, Skaia City's premier scientific study, continues to break ground, even four years after its initial founding. Doctor Robert Scratch, recently appointed head of the project, has recently announced that they have now conceived of a method by which a human mind can be indefinitely preserved as a digital copy.

“Opponents of the announcement have raised concerns about human agency and the possibility of creating a technological advance that, while useful, would ultimately be out of reach of the average person. Of the advancement, the head of the Organization for Human Awareness and Rights (OHAR), Oscar Poe, has said, ‘This will be a new commodity to sell and trade unscrupulously. Making the human mind a product is a mistake, and the advancement of this study will harm far more than it will help.’

“Nonetheless, Scratch and the Dorian Project's team have continued to press forward. Their government grant has recently increased, with an addition $1.5 million being invested in the study. SBURB International has also announced a handful of new Public Science Learning Days, which have been published on page B5.”

Of the articles, the final interests Karkat the most. It also bears an image of Scratch, now visibly older, sitting before a an array of computers. Eerily, it was published on December 2nd, 2060, with the headline **“Dorian Project Opens New Branch of Study, Seeks Participants”**.

“The long-running and profitable Dorian Project study has recently announced the opening of a new branch, MindScape Memorial. The project is now open to those willing to donate their minds for a hefty sum of cash, totaling $500,000 per agreement. All involved have assured that minds will not be harvested until death.

“Participants are now being recruited at designated locations around Skaia City, listed on page A23.”

It's a short article, especially compared to the others, but it's interesting, nonetheless. Perhaps most interestingly, Karkat finds that Scratch's appearance seems to have changed far less than he would have expected. He can't say what it means, but it's a strange point of interest.

* * *

**8 April 2130:** I need to contact Rose and conduct another interview with her. I can't think of a reason for her to lie to me. Perhaps, it was just some sort of technological fluke. Maybe it's a huge goddamned conspiracy, but I doubt it. There's definitely some key differences, though, and I can't just wave them off.

The arrival of noon is heralded by a storm, seemingly out of nowhere. Of course, it came from somewhere, but it's a sudden departure from the hot, sticky, but ultimately sunny weather of just half an hour prior. Even though it was reported to be in the forecast by every major local news station in the area, it catches many people off guard. Crowds scramble for shelter, taking refuge where they can—under tattered store awnings, inside overturned dumpsters, in cars.

As it turns out, Karkat and Dave are both among those caught in the downpour.

The skies have opened, dumping a relentless deluge of rain and a cacophonous roar of thunder. Lightning streaks across the sky, sometimes creating brilliant displays of fireworks-like sparks upon striking the rods atop many of the city's towering skyscrapers.

Both Karkat and Dave find themselves in a rental car, provided by Karkat's insurance company. It's a much older model than Karkat's, dating back to 2140, but it retains similar features. It drives itself, has advanced security features, and some comfortable seats. It lacks, however, the style and sophistication of the car that was lost. The rain has flooded the streets, and officials have blockaded the road, forcing both of its occupants to be locked in place.

Right now, the atmosphere is set by the smooth jazz music, which Karkat has playing. It's one of the few music drives he salvaged from his old car, and he's making sure to use it.

With little to do, Karkat ultimately resolves to converse with his passenger. He rotates his seat, undoing the seatbelt, so that he can retrieve some sodas from the built-in minifridge. As he tosses one to Dave, he speaks up, “You're quiet at fuck, Strider, what're you thinking about?”

Dave shrugs. He pops open his can and looks, once again, to the sky. His eyes are locked on the spray of sparks, which rain from the tip of the Banker's Complex tower. “Weather was never this fucked up, at least not when I was alive.”

Karkat responds with a cynical huff. “No? Well, let's do some elementary math. You died in 2060, at the age of twenty-three. So, you were born in 2037.” There's a satisfying pop, then a fizz, as Karkat opens his own can. He leans back, resting his feet on the center of the car's dashboard. In doing so, his pants rise up, just enough to reveal a pair of socks, which are printed with a fading pattern of happily dancing crabs. (A gift from his father, and one of his personal favorites. He has many socks, but these, for both comfort and sentimental reasons, are the best.) He makes a vain attempt to pull his pants legs back down, to cover them, but ultimately admits defeat. “You were born before the Age of Storms. Fuck, you lived in goddamned _Houston_ , a city that doesn't even exist anymore.”

“Fair.” Dave pauses. There's a thoughtful look on his face, but it quickly disappears.

Karkat, meanwhile, takes a sip of his drink. He savors the slight burn, as it travels down his throat. “Look, the weather has just gone absolutely apeshit. We've destroyed the world, and it's decided to kick our asses. But, hey, humans are stubbornly hearty things. We continue to build and thrive, and nature just has to shit herself over it.”

“You're not even trying anymore?”

“To save the planet?” Karkat laughs. It's harsh and devoid of any real humor. When he responds, he does so with a dark smile, “No, we gave up on that bullshit forever ago. Drop your goddamned ugly cigarette butts wherever you want, we don't give a damn. It's what happens. Live with it.”

“Oh.”

“Let's talk about something more cheerful.”

“God, that sounds great. Have a fuckin’ star, you gave the class its most decent suggestion yet.”

Another laugh, but this one is genuine. Karkat glances briefly to Dave, taking in his appearance. He traces the line of his jaw with his gaze. “You and Rose are pretty close.”

Now, Dave snickers. He rolls his eyes and punches Karkat's shoulder. “No, dumbass, we're just related. I mean, we care about one another, in a chill sibling way, but we're pretty damn different. When I moved here, things got a little more familiar, but we ain't super close siblings, the type that'd make each other part of a wedding party. I can see how you'd get the impression, though. What about you?”

“I don't have any family left.” Karkat shrugs. He came to terms with this long ago. He understands that he's alone, and he's come to think that he'll remain that way. “And don't deal out that pity bullshit. I don't care.”

“Sheesh. Fine.” Dave shrugs. “Well, I'm out of shit to say.”

“Did you know Rose was in the lab, by the way?”

“No idea.” There's a frankness in Dave's voice; there's no way he's lying. It's a strange concept, to think that two people could be locked in a lab, entirely unaware of one another's existence, but it's definitely the truth. “I mean, I guess it was pretty dope that she was, since we know each other, but I didn't know she was there.” He flattens his left hand and waves it over his hand, whistling as he does so.

Karkat nods. He writes his down in his notebook. Once he's done, he looks back, to Dave. “How's the new arm? Are you absolutely going fucking ape on everything?”

“Sure, I pounded the shit out of a can of name brand beans.”

“Cool.” Silence. To Karkat, it's tense and uncomfortable. It doesn't seem that Dave perceives it the same way, but, it's almost unbearable. He finds himself taking up one of Dave's habits, rambling just to fill the void. “I know I'm not supposed to get personally attached to any of my cases, but there's just something unbelievably and irrevocably fucked up about yours that I can't get it out of my head. It's god so many fucking layers, and I'm not sure what they all mean. I could dig into the earth, maybe twenty feet down, and all the layers would be less than what's happening with this bullshit.”

Dave responds with a serene nod. “Yeah. Thanks for all the effort, dude, it means, like... It means a shitload, knowing someone at least gives a fuck about it.”

“Fucking shit, I love this idiot,” mutters Karkat.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, don't worry about it.” Uncertainty and anxiety creep up, rising within Karkat like bubbles in a lava lamp. He diverts his gaze, opting to look, instead, at the overcast and lightning-lit sky. Fortunately for him, a call from Kanaya turns the attentions away from his awkward utterance. Unfortunately, the minute he answers, he's greeted with unpleasant news.

“Karkat, I don't want to worry you unnecessarily,” already, it's obvious that something is wrong, “But I was just forced to evacuate my building, due to the arrival of a group of armed intruders. They have been apprehended, and no one was injured, but the police have reported to me that they were looking for me.”

Both Karkat and Dave freeze. They lock gazes, both filled with a palpable fear.

“They... What?” Karkat stammers. He becomes, in this moment, keenly aware of the fact that he's stuck in traffic, that he can't do anything to help. “I'm sorry. Uh... Do you want me to come stay with you tonight?”

“That's a flattering offer, and we both know that I'm perfectly capable of protecting myself. I don't believe your services will be necessary today,” for someone who was just the object of what was likely a targeted hit, Kanaya's voice is incredibly calm, and Karkat would expect as much from her. “Police will protect the building tonight, but, if you would like to come tomorrow, I would not be opposed.”

“Rose is okay, right?” Dave interrupts.

Kanaya snickers.

Rose answers. “I'm unharmed, Dave, please keep your little man nipples from getting overexcited.”

The comment prompts a laugh from everyone, save for Dave, whose cheeks light up a bright pink. He falls silent.

Karkat takes over the conversation. “I'll arrange for a housesitter at my apartment, and I'll be over tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Karkat.”

A stern nod, followed by the end of the call. Karkat leans back, wringing his hands together. If he had stopped his investigation, if he had listened to the letter, would this have happened? Sure, he has to follow his gut, and to do the right thing, but has he crossed the line? An overwhelming, all-encompassing sense of fear fills him. His throat tightens, and it feels as if someone is pressing down on his lungs. Nonetheless, for the sake of his image, both as a detective and as a protector of Dave, he manages to somehow keep an air of stoicism.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, comments and feedback and theories are always welcome! thanks for reading! prepare for some sort of fluff next chapter, and a little bit of crabdad.


	17. I'll take my memories to bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **8 April 2130:** Dreams are fucking strange things, but they have meaning. Sometimes. Probably not often.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this title is from [_Waking Up Alone_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bDHKe0xQUb0), by Paul Williams, from 1971. **Art has been added to Chapter Two! You can see it by going back, or visiting[my art blog](https://tt40art.tumblr.com/post/185299577029/just-another-random-homestuck-sketch-if-you-like).** Oh shit I published out of order

Kanaya's apartment is, in comparison to Karkat's, quite modern. It's minimalist, featuring only what it needs to have. A sofa, two armchairs, a fireplace, and a nicely stocked kitchen. A few knickknacks sit on the built-in wall shelves. At the back of this vast, open room are three doors, each labeled in scrolling font: bedroom, guest bedroom, and bathroom. The entire southern wall, which is opposite the back wall, is glass, through which there's a pleasant view of the overcast day.

“Ah. You're here a little early, Karkat,” Kanaya smiles. Despite wearing a fluffy jade colored bath robe, and obviously having only just woken up, she still has an air of preparedness. “You don't mind sharing a room with Dave, do you? I only have one guest room.”

“No, that's fine,” Karkat mumbles. He presses the telescoping handle of his suitcase down, into its closed position, before taking it in his arms. In it, he's packed little more than the essentials: some clothes, toiletries, and a well-supplied pistol. “Doesn't look like anything got fucked over, here.”

“No, fortunately.” Kanaya nods to the guest room. “I'll let you and Dave get set up, acquaint yourselves with my humble home, so to speak.”

Both Dave and Karkat nod, then skitter into the designated space.

It's a fair size, perfectly large enough for two grown men, and a single bed is at the center. Well-stocked bookshelves line the walls, a television is against the wall, next to the door. Two rows, of three ceiling lights each, illuminate the space. In one corner, a cylindrical holographic tube is set to display the image of fluttering moths.

Karkat sets the bag down, atop the bed, and begins to unload. He hangs jackets in the standing wardrobe, and folds the rest into the drawers of a faux wood dresser.

At the same time, Dave throws himself onto the bed. He folds his arms behind his head, and stares at the ceiling. “Mmm. This is like being lifted by the soft, lovely hands of sweet cherubs,” he hums. “After sleeping on your fuckin’ sofa, this is beautiful. A real goddamned bed.”

Still groggy, having woken up far earlier than he usually does, Karkat shakes his head. (Kanaya is an early riser, but Karkat rarely wakes any earlier than 10:00. Today, his alarm roused him at 7:30, so that he could slog all the way across the city, to Kanaya's apartment, and arrive at a decent time.) “Yeah. Whatever. Just move over, and stop flapping your fucking lips.” He doesn't wait for the command to be obeyed. He shoves Dave aside, and clambers into the bed.

A strange stillness falls over the room. There's a warmth in the other man's embrace, one that Karkat has long since forgotten. It's pleasant, even if Dave doesn't really seem to acknowledge it. Just having his back another person, to feel human contact, is a refreshing break from the usual routine.

 

_In his sleep, Karkat finds himself sitting at the kitchen table of his childhood home. He had lived in the city's outskirts, in a relatively dense but distinctly suburban area. It was a nice place, a detached home, of a fair size for just him and his father. The overhead lights glows its familiar, soft yellow, sometimes flickering, but never going out entirely. Across the small round table, in a rickety wooden chair, is his father, a near mirror image of Karkat. He has the same complexion, the same facial structure. His eyes, however, are brown, and his nose is less pronounced. Silver stubble, which the man so stubbornly refused to keep in any sort of order, covers his chin._

_“Fancy seeing you here,” he says, his voice as gruff as always. A cigar hangs from his lips, its smoke trailing upwards, and swirling around the overhead light before dissipating. “Any headway on the case, kid?”_

_Karkat shrugs. He pulls out his own seat, plops down, and folds his arms across his chest. It's all so familiar—this room, this situation, this feeling. “Nope. I mean, I have a theory, but—”_

_“Well, tell me your theory.” Karkat's father plucks the cigar from his mouth. There's a soft grinding noise as he extinguishes it, rubbing it against the old porcelain ashtray at the table's center. “A theory's better than nothing, Karkat.”_

_Another shrug. “Well, I think Dave and Rose are experimental humans. I mean... I know that doesn't make any fucking sense at all, and it sure as hell wouldn't to you, since you're just some sort of brain ghost, but that's what I think.”_

_“Yeah, well, the brain ghost is listening.” The reply carries the same dry wit as Karkat had always known and remembered from his father. “What about Scratch?”_

_“Aw, fuck, I've got no clue what that bastard wants. His role in this incomprehensible scenario is about as obvious as the sun rising in the sky, but I don't know what it is.”_

_A hand rests on Karkat's shoulder, and, when he looks up, he sees a friendly smile. “You can figure that one out. What about Dave?”_

_“What about him, Crabdad?” Karkat reverts to using an old nickname for his father. He smirks, taking pleasure in the old man's brief hint of surprise._

_“Well, I'm no detective,” the other man says, smirking, as he lights another cigar, “But, you only call me ‘Crabdad’ when you're trying to hide something.”_

_“I'm not trying to hide anything. Nothing! If you open me up, like I'm a goddamned delivery box on your doorstep, you'd ship me right back to the warehouse, because it's fucking empty!”_

_Crabdad laughs. “Okay, well, you like Dave, don't you?”_

_“He's alright.” It's a begrudging admission. “Why should I care?”_

_“He's cute.”_

_“And so were pandas, but they're still extinct.”_

_The old man sighs. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a dollar bill, and slides it across the table. “Oner for your thoughts.”_

_“Fine.” With fervor, akin to that of a beggar, Karkat snatches the bill up. “I think Dave is cute, even though he's an insufferable douchelord. I'd rather listen to the cacophonous anti-song of a million nails on a chalkboard than his godawful voice, because it drives me up the Great Floodwall of the South whenever I hear it. He's got the personality of a fun-colored plastic toothpick, and the predictability of the weather. So, summarily, I like him. Does that satisfy you, Crabdad?”_

_“Hm.” Crabdad rubs his chin. He shrugs. He props his feet up, on the table, and tilts his chair back. “No, not really. Why don't you say something about it?”_

_“He's my fucking case, Dad, I can't just waltz up to him and ask, ‘Hey, would you like to bash your lips into mine, in a standard human courting ritual?’ It doesn't work like that.” There's a momentary pause, during which it appears as if Karkat's father is going to speak, but the son interrupts. “AND BEFORE YOU FUCKING SAY IT, I_ know  _that you met Mom while you were both mini detectives, or whatever you want to call it. That's different.”_

_“Is it?”_

_“Uh... Yeah?”_

_Mirroring his son's response, Crabdad counters, “Uuuh... No?” Afterwards, returning to his usual state, that of a grizzled noir-genre-ready sleuth, he continues, “You like him, so act on it! What's the worst that could happen, kid? He'll say ‘no’. Big deal. You've already been dumped by Terezi.”_

_“Okay, well, that's because Terezi decided to date Vriska, and, then, they got married, so I'm going to throw out a wildly uncertain bone and say that doesn't count.” Karkat looks away, focusing his gaze on the floor. “Besides, Dave deserves better than me.”_

_“Then be better than yourself. Easy.” Crabdad shrugs. He plucks his cigar from his mouth, flicks some of the smoldering tip into the ashtray, and smirks. “Remember, Karkat, the worst that can happen is that he tells you ‘no’. You don't get anywhere if you don't try. So, try it. By the way, you're about to wake up.”_

_“Thanks, Dad.” Karkat smiles. Immediately afterwards, he pauses. “Wait, what?”_

 

The door to the guest room slams open. Rose Lalonde, bold and unafraid of any sort of possible repercussions—both physical and, more importantly, visual—strides in. She throws a shrink-wrapped muffin at the groggy detective, and says, in as chipper a voice as her personality will allow, “It's almost noon, Detective. You might want to consider waking up.”

Karkat groans. He rolls over, avoiding the unfortunate action of smashing his breakfast by a few inches. “Where's Dave?”

“Dave is out here, in the living room, with everyone else. We're currently engaged in a thrilling game of watching the light filter through the smoggy sky, and guessing what color it will be, come dusk. Clearly, we are absolutely entrenched in joviality. So, wake up.” With this, Rose shuts the door.

In silence, and once again left to his own devices, Karkat eats his breakfast. He ponders his dream, and the words his imagined father spoke to him. In all reality, he's fully aware that the reconstruction of his father's personality was incredibly accurate to the original. If anything, the words spoken to him were exactly those his father would have said, were he still alive. And, these words stew in his head, begging to be acknowledged.

The longer he thinks about it, the more willing he finds himself to ask the question: Dave Strider, would you want to maybe, possibly, by some grace of an unyielding God, want to date me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the shorter chapter! we're building up to some BIG THINGS, tho. eventually.


	18. Just like the wasp that stings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **9 April 2130:** I've never listened to people, unless they've got something important to say. Unfortunately for most people, they usually don't. So, summarily, I never listen to people. The only exception I have is Kanaya. Why, then, would I listen to some random fuck-all on the phone?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is from Bishock, and I'm currently too lazy to figure out where it's actually from, so [**here's the link**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u2UPvqpGPSM). We're going to launch our way into the big, meaty plot, now, so buckle up!
> 
> I PUBLISHED OUT OF ORDER PLS GO BACK AND READ CHAPTER 17 MY BAD.

Early in the morning, before the sun has managed to fully rise, and the rare, smogless sky is painted in brilliant hues of pink and orange, Karkat Vantas receives a phone call. There's no identification, nor is there an accompanying holographic projection, as there often is. Instead, there is little more than a digitally altered, distinctly British voice. “Hello, Mr. Shaan.”

Karkat, quite reluctantly, stumbles from bed. He leaves behind the warmth, of both the covers and Dave's body, to stumble into the living room. As he gropes about in the dark, he growls a response, “First of all, fuckwad, the name's Karkat. Karkat Vantas. Secondly, who the fuck do you think you are?”

A disappointed series of tuts. “Is that truly how you normally treat your clients? This is Dr. Scratch.”

“Nice joke. Fuck off.” Karkat prepares to hang up.

Instead, the voice speaks up, and the voice masking drops. Now, it's obvious. If this man's voice is anything like his father's, the identity is unmistakable. “Now, young man, you listen to me. I  _can_ and  _will_ use my power to make sure that you do your job to my expectations. I have standards, you understand. Surely, you understand my standards. I am a scientist; I cannot meddle in messy affairs, but I know those who can. Do you value your life, Mr. Shaan?”

Karkat bristles. “That's not my name.”

“Ah, but your father's legacy is that name.”

Silence.

“Now, you will listen to me. I am doing my absolute best to avoid any... shall we say,” a sinister chuckle punctuates this, “Unpleasant outcomes. In fact, I even have an offer for you. Should you cooperate, and drop your investigation, I would be happy to revive your father. A veritable family reunion, no?”

There's a brief moment, during which Karkat considers the proposition, but he quickly disregards the idea. “That wouldn't be my father. And you have no control over me. I don't give a fuck what you do to me.”

“Well, then, what about to Dave?”

“What could you do to him?” Karkat scoffs. He can't help but laugh. He's so certain in his safety, so assured. “What could you possibly do, that you haven't already done?”

“Why don't you look and see?” the other man sneers.

Karkat says nothing, but his grip on the phone tightens. There's a sudden, keen awareness of the fact that he's left his gun in the room. Nonetheless, he rushes to the door.

And, the minute he throws it open, he finds himself staring down the barrel of that very same gun. Dave holds it, aiming at his forehead, with a look of abject terror on his face. “I... I don't want to do this,” he mumbles. “Whatever he wants, just give the damn thing to him.”

As if for no other reason than to taunt him, Scratch's hologram appears, now. It circles both Dave and Karkat, smirking. He looks exactly like his father, even down to the spine-chilling smile. “Now, Mr. Shaan, do you understand? This man—” he gestures to Dave, “—is under my complete control.” He flashes a glimpse of a touch screen control module. “Everything he does, he  _will_ remember, but he's unable to stop it. I see that your friends have disabled his normal command frequencies, but he has, oh, thousands of others.”

Dave's finger presses down a bit tighter on the trigger. Sweat beads at his brow.

“The command I just sent him informed him of the situation. He is aware that I am willing to make a deal with you. Should you stop trying to understand his past, I will leave him alone. No more interference, no more death threats, no more hits. You  _must_ understand, Mr. Shaan, this is important business. The government is paying me quite a hefty sum to make a breakthrough, to produce my first working model.” Another of those sinister smiles crosses Scratch's face. He tugs at his sleeves and adjusts his collar, as if this is an everyday thing for him. “Or, maybe, this is not enough? Must I also threaten your friend's girlfriend, too? Are you really that selfish?”

Karkat remains silent, doing little more than staring, with a pointed glare, at the projection before him.

“I see.” Scratch stands upright, rubbing his chin. “Let me explain the situation. This man, TT413, he is a faulty model. A horrible, botched mistake. You see, his genetic clone was predisposed to certain genetic anomalies. I tried to fix them, I really did, but he came out... flawed. Missing an arm, unable to properly understand most of what I needed him to. He is slotted for demolition. Should I destroy this man, his being—his memories, and all that you've been so hopelessly pining for—will be gone.”

“How do you—?” Karkat is unable to finish his own question.

Scratch interrupts. “I'm disappointed in you, Mr. Shaan. This unit is outfitted with the most sophisticated scanners and cameras. I've been watching you, and I've seen your every move! Don't try to block it, either, it's integrated in TT413's neural circuitry. Perhaps TT413 is too daft to see it, but I'm not. You love this heap of trash, and that's a beautiful thing. Thus, I assume you value his life, and his sanity.”

There's a sort of dawning realization on Dave's face, followed by nothing less than disgrace. “I'm sorry,” he mouths.

“Silence, subject,” Scratch thunders. He turns his attentions back to Karkat. “So, will you agree to my terms?”

Karkat, despite everything within him screaming otherwise, reluctantly nods. “Yes. Now, let him go.”

Scratch laughs. It's cold, heartless sound, and it's accompanied by a statement, spoken with such lack of feeling, that it startles Karkat's very soul. “No. Not before I do this.”

There's a flash of light. A blinding pain sears through Karkat's shoulder. He falls to the floor, clutching an immediate cauterized wound.

“A bit of a reminder, shall we say?” Scratch's hologram disappears.

Dave drops to his knees, his chest heaving. “Karkat?” he mutters.

Shock kicks in. The world turns white. Karkat tries to stay awake, to count the ceiling tiles, to trace the lines of the architecture around him. His efforts fail, and he slips into unconsciousness.


	19. I'm still in a dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **9 April 2130, Entry 2:** Dave is missing. Everyone assures me he'll be back, but who fucking knows. I sure as hell don't. I'm not some sort of expert in Strider psyche. In fact, I'm not even sure Dave is a master of that. I suppose we'll just have to wait and see what he does, because that's really the only option we have left, isn't it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from Cynthia Harrell's [**Snake Eater**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TcSJpRsZAjU), yes, that fucking song. I'm kinda branching the narrative a bit. Up until now, it's just been Karkat's point of view, but I'm adding a few more. They'll be divided with a horizontal rule and a location.

Karkat wakes in a room filled with light and sound. People noisily bustle about nearby, and an overhead speaker calls out various phrases, all filled with medical jargon. His right arm is in a sling.

“Fuck.” He sits up, wincing at the sudden jolt of pain in his shoulder. “Fuck,” he repeats.

Memories flood back, of what had happened this morning. His eyes widen. “Dave,” he mutters, now searching the room. “Dave?”

A voice answers, one that is distinct and articulate. “Dave left,” Kanaya says, her tone calm and collected, as it always it, “We’re not sure where he went, but we assume he will return at some point. You should be more concerned with your arm, perhaps.”

“That won't take long to heal, let's be honest, here,” Karkat counters. He throws off the covers on his bed, stumbles to his feet, and snatches up the clipboard at the end of his bed. According to the scrawl, which, as a detective, he's come to understand, he has a ‘moderate injury of the shoulder’, as well as ‘mild mental confusion’.

“I'm certain he'll be back,” Rose reassures. She offers a smile, one that's tight-lipped and reserved; its meaning is enigmatic. “He doesn't normally just scarper off to be alone, and not come back. Besides, he told me recently that he was planning on asking you to perhaps go to dinner with him. He even had a place in mind, some sort of greasy, standard-fare burger joint.” There's a definite sense that this statement is supposed to help, but it only serves to make Karkat more cognizant of what's at stake.

* * *

**9 April 2130**  
Coldridge Tavern  
203 E. Peregrine St., Suite F, Block A  
**Skaia City Proper**

Coldridge Tavern, despite being an upscale establishment, with a location directly at the heart of downtown Skaia, is known as a dive bar. It's considered a mid-tier place, perhaps two-and-a-half to three stars, should one follow a five star rating system. The food is subpar, the drinks are decent, and the atmosphere is as casual as one can get within the heart of gentrification. It's themed after “old fashioned” values. Rather than the usual touch screen drink card systems, used by most places, this is a good, not-too-wholesome tap room. The guests are served, not the other way around.

As the foggy, tinted windows suggest, more than a few minor violations of city laws take place inside. The air, despite prohibitions against it, is hazy with tobacco and vape smoke. Highly flammable signs hang everywhere, sometimes crossing over exposed wiring. In one corner, a very much illegal exchange of drugs is happening, yet no one bats an eye.

Amidst all this, sitting at a lonely corner table, is Dave Strider. He's pleasantly buzzed, but not drunk, and he's contemplating his own existence. He considers his past, or what he can remember of it.

In his mind's eye, he makes a list. The words are projected in front of him, like holograms that only he can see, courtesy of his built-in functions as a so-called “higher being”. He begins with what he knows.

  1. His name is Dave Strider.
  2. He is twenty-three years old. Or, rather, he  _was_ twenty-three years old, prior to being murdered, and he is now resuming his existence, as if no time has passed. He is, in all physical rights, a twenty-three-year-old man of relatively good health.
  3. He is not  _fully_ human, nor is he entirely artificial. What he is, exactly, he can't say. Cyborg, perhaps? Mutant? The only thing that is a certainty about  _what_ he is happens to be his status as a test subject of some sort.
  4. And, finally, he is, by means he doesn't know of, alive.



Four things. Admittedly, that's not much. Most people, he reasons, have at least five things that they are certain about, and he can guess that their natural existence is one of them. It's an abysmal number, one he tries to offset with another list. This one is displayed for him, too, next to the one he has just made. This time, he lists what he's  _fairly_ certain of—namely, his memories. (If he can call them such. Are they really his? Did he ever exist? These are all relevant questions, which have been nagging him since he first woke.)

  1. The last thing he remembers, before he woke up in this new world, was taking a hike with Rose. When he was attacked, Rose tried (and, obviously, failed) to protect him.
  2. On his eighteenth birthday, he ran away from home. Fleeing Houston, and the life he'd known there, he went to the only place he knew of. He went to Skaia, where he ended up staying with Rose.
  3. His parents died when he was six, and from that point on, he was raised by his brother.
  4. His brother is (or, he supposes, was) a massive douchebag.
  5. When he died,  _Pokémon_ still existed. Furniture was one function only, and skyscrapers were static objects, not vending machine rotisseries. The ocean had only risen a small amount, yet, now, it's flooded much of the world he knew.
  6. There are blanks in his memory, particularly during his eighteenth year of life, as if someone has actively sabotaged it.



Again, he finds the list to be morosely short. What sort of person only knows six things about themselves with any degree of certainty? And, more importantly, what were the memories that were erased?  _Why_ were they erased?

A voice calls for him. It's at once familiar and foreign. “Dave? Holy shit, is that you?”

He looks up, and finds himself staring at a woman. She's older, at least eighty, but her grey hair is long and straight, and her skin is still a lovely tan. Behind round glasses, green eyes stare forth. “You haven't aged a day!”

“Who are you?” Dave mutters.

“Jade. Jade Harley. You don't remember me?” A small frown. “I was Rose's roommate for a bit, just before you moved in. She told me a lot about you! My, I must be hallucinating. Well, it's nice to see you again,” she smiles. It's a pleasant, oddly familiar gesture, one that manages to stir something within Dave, but it doesn't manage to dig up any concrete memories. She sits, straddling the chair across the table from him, and sets her drink on the table. (By its appearance alone, it's probably a fruity version of a margarita.) “You don't remember me at all? We used to hang out all the time here.”

“Here?”

“Yeah!” Another wide grin, showcasing well cared for teeth. There's an awareness that, if she knew him, Jade must be in her nineties, but her youthful energy is still readily apparent. “You were always so much fun! Always got your favorite cider, too bad they went out of business.”

Dave remains silent.

This doesn't bother Jade. She continue speaking, eagerly revealing information that Dave can't, himself, remember. “Remember, back when you first moved here, and you tried to convince everyone your name was Dick Longman? That was a good one! And, when you turned twenty-one, we all came here. We had a huge party, went absolutely all out. It was so much fun.” She pulls a page out of her purse, writes a number on it, and slides it across the table. “Here. Give this to Rose, if she's still around. I'd love to talk some time! It's been great seeing you, Dave, even if you're just some sort of weird hallucination!” With a wide grin, and after forming a heart with her hands, Jade departs.

Dave, once again alone, stares at the bright green ink on the page before him. He wonders who this is, why he can't remember her, and what else he can't remember. Is he really who he thinks he is? Can he really claim to be  _anyone_? What does it mean? Can he even trust himself?

He looks down, to his hands, and considers what he's just done. He's just shot Karkat, the only man on this planet who has demonstrated any drive to help him, and he couldn't stop himself. If he's so easily manipulated, what would that mean for Karkat's safety? He's keenly aware of Karkat's affections for him. At least, now, he knows. He knows that, if he ran, it would hurt Karkat. But, on the other hand, if he goes back, he could easily do so much more harm than a broken heart. Rose would get over it; she's always been more emotionally resilient than him. And, surely, Karkat would, too. And, in all honesty, it would hurt Dave, too, but he'd consider it a compromise.

“Where would I go?” he mutters to himself, and sips at his drink. Who would take him in? Would he be able to live harming someone else, someone completely innocent of anything involving him?

He orders another drink.

* * *

**10 April 2130**  
Seamstress Place Luxury Homes, Unit 11  
612 Alternia St.  
**East Skaia**

**10 April 2130:** I haven't seen Dave yet. I hope he's okay. I've halted the investigation, at least for the time being, to keep Rose and Dave safe Rose wants me to keep digging, as does Kanaya, but I'm not so sure, now. Is it worth it?

It's currently midnight. Karkat sits at the door to his apartment, anxiously waiting for Dave's return. A blanket is over his shoulder, as he figured that Dave would be tired from the journey. In his hand, he holds a water, because he's sure that Dave will be thirsty when he returns. The lights are on, the door is unlocked, and calm music is being played through the speakers set into the ceiling. Where last night there had been giggles and whispers, Kanaya's room is now, like the rest of the home, cloaked in an oppressive silence.

Kanaya exits, gets herself a glass of water, and looks to Karkat. “Perhaps you should sleep, Karkat,” she says, clearly concerned.

Karkat shakes his head. “I'll stay up to wait for him.”

“Well, then, good night,” Kanaya says. She sighs, audibly, and returns to her room.

Karkat, meanwhile, returns to staring at the front door. He wrings his hands and watches the hour past. His eyelids grow heavy; his limbs, like lead. His head droops, and he fights it. One. Twice. Thrice. Then, unable to resist the pull of sleep, he gives in. A loud yawn. His eyes close, and he leans back, sinking into his recliner (which he'd pushed all the way to the door).

 

_It's another night, but Karkat finds himself in the same kitchen. He sits at the table, half-heartedly prodding at some fried eggs, sunny side up. A banana forms a smile, and a pair of peppers, at the center of each yolk, forming pupils. Karkat's father, across the table, smokes his cigar, as always._

_“Looks like you're in one fuck of a pickle, huh?” The old man smirks._

_Karkat rolls his eyes. “Well, then, do you have any advice, Dad?”_

_“Do what you think is right.” Crabdad shrugs. He stands and flattens out the paper he's been reading, though there's no distinct text on it. Oddly enough, the photo is of Dave. He breathes in, then exhales a plume of smoke through his nostrils. “Go for what your heart says.”_

_Quite suddenly, his father disappears. In his stead, Dave stands on the other side. There's a serene smile on his face, but his words are spoken with a calculated  coldness. “Do you even know who I am?  I don't even know who I am.”_

_“I know you're a good person,” Karkat stammers, surprised by the sudden shift._

_“Am I?” Dave shrugs. He turns, revealing that his palms are covered in blood. As quickly as this is shown, he buries his hands in his pockets. “I'll see you around, Karkat.”_

_“Yeah,” Karkat mutters. A cold chill shoots down his spine. He feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise._

_True, he's fallen in love with Dave. He'll admit it. But, it's also true that he doesn't really know who he is. Would that make a difference? He's not sure, but he doesn't think it would._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might suck at math, but seeing as Dave died in 2060, and it's now 2130, then Jade is around ninety. Also, shes still alive because she's amazing.


	20. Chained down to my core

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **13 April 2130:** Dave still hasn’t returned. Who knows where he is. I sure as fuck don’t. I’ve given up. He’ll come back when he’s ready, or he won’t. I guess that’s what happens when I fucking dare to have emotions, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics from this title are also from Beneath the Mask. Warning for pretty blatant mentions of abuse in this chapter.

“The world as we know it is so inexplicably, unfathomably small. The access to information might be vastly improved, even impossible, by standards of the past, but what does it mean?” Rose Lalonde stands on the balcony, which is attached to the master bedroom. She looks out, to a sky of dim stars and a city of light so bright that it has its own visible halo. These are the outskirts of Skaia, what’s left of the suburbs, and what’s left of nature is visible here. A bird roosts atop a rusted electrical pole, and a cool breeze circulates the dust and smog choked air. There’s a feeling, like grits, of the pollution as it slides down the throat. “Is life better, now, than it was years ago?”

From her spot on a jade green lounger, Kanaya shrugs. She takes a sip of berry juice from her glass. “The world is strange, isn’t it? Perhaps we worry too much about it.”

“I suppose so.” Rose sighs. She adjusts her headband and studies the city’s skyline. Towers reach into the clouds, like fingers, dipping into a frosting of chemical fog. From time to time, a plane will descend from the heavens, like a divine message, and disappear behind the façade of industrialized glory.

Displayed against these images are readings, which she’s grown quite used to. The smog index hovers at 640, which is high enough to be concerning, but not the worst it could be. It is 73° Fahrenheit. The humidity is 66%. Noise levels are within an acceptable range, and there is little chance of precipitation. She is facing north northwest.

“It’s going to be another hot day, isn’t it?” Kanaya yawns.

Rose nods. The forecast is calling for a high of 94°, far higher than she can recall it being during this time of the year, at least when she was alive. “Yes. It seems it will be a bad day for air quality, too. Perhaps it is best if we remain indoors today.”

“Any news from Dave?” Kanaya frowns. She leans back in the lounger, and folds her hands behind her head. “Karkat has been worrying himself into a frenzy.”

After checking the burn phone, given to her by Karkat, Rose shakes her head. “I’ve received little communication from him since his departure. I’ve tried to convince him that it’s safe to return here, but he clearly isn’t investing much stock into my reassurances.”

Kanaya nods. She looks up to the sky, and sighs. “Hopefully, he returns soon. Karkat is a mess without him.” She pauses, offers a small smile, and adds, coyly, “Well, more of a mess than usual.”

* * *

 **13 April 2130**  
Starlight Open Air Mall  
151 Solarwell Ct.  
**Skaia City Proper**

Dave Strider stands in the midst of a dense crowd, yet he feels alone. Rain has soaked his clothing, and the day's cool weather only adds to his discomfort. Even as people bustle all around him, often elbowing him and shouldering him aside, his sense of pure, unbearable isolation continues. His breath rises into the air, forming small clouds of condensation.

“It's going to be cold out there, folks! Be ready for it! Winter comes back with a vengeance,” announces the voice of the weatherman, whose image is being projected into the sky, against large, dark grey clouds. “Beware of light frost, and be sure to look out for wildlife, which might be looking for a warm place in your cars' wheel wells!”

There's an oppressive, overly artificial sense of cheer in the air. People smile at one another, they nod, they greet each other. A banner flies over the shopping mall, with large letters emblazoned on its bright red body: Have a wonderful day! A cheerful moose mascot hands out free samples of some sort of strange tea, which the accompanying sign claims to have various health benefits. Speakers, scattered strategically throughout the space, blast an upbeat pop tune, one that Dave could see existing back when he was alive.

Alive. It's a word that means little to him, now. What does it mean, to be alive? What does it matter? Presumably, no matter how many times he dies, he'll just be brought back, likely by another of a long line of crazed scientists. By extension, does this not make death meaningless? What should he fear? _Why_ should he fear?

In the back of his mind, there comes a memory.

_He's much smaller, much younger, and he stands, shaking, before the silhouette of his older brother. A broken bowl is at his feet, and a yardstick is held in his hand. When the man speaks, there's a distinct edge to his voice, potent and heavy, like venom. “Look here, little man, you're already costing me money. You break it, you pay for it. You ain't got a job, so I guess you'll be paying somehow else, huh?” The yardsticks comes down, and the resultant crack rouses Dave from his reverie._

He finds that he's wandered, exiting the mall, and is now sitting on a bench in small adjacent park. A gaggle of geese peacefully circle about the center of the pond, and the wind rustles softly through the trees. It's a pleasant sound, like the voice of a friend, or the humming of a mother to her child. He reaches into his pocket, and pulls forth a bottle of rejuvenators, small pills, sold under the table, known for clearing the mind. They had just been emerging when he was alive, but it was easy enough to find some in a store yesterday. He pops one into his mouth and chews. The texture is chalky, and the flavor is similar to the distinct sweetness of a red apple.

Another memory comes to him.

_He sits in a courtroom. His right arm is in a cast, as is his left leg. He can feel the dull thud of his injuries, even through the haze of the hosptal’s painkillers. He downs a rejuvenator. For a reason he can’t be sure of, he can recall the brand: Lilith, the same as the one he had popped into his mouth, only a few moments ago._

_His name is called, and he rises to his feet. He leans against a crutch, his sweaty palms making it hard to maintain a solid grip, and nods._

_A woman, with a soft voice and kind words, leads him to the stand._

_He testifies. He speaks of the abuses of his brother, of all the years of torment he had survived. The entire time, he refuses the meet the other man’s gaze. When the affair is done, he is led away._

Back in the present, Dave stares at the sky. He watches the clouds pass, and, on a whim, he lays down. He feels the grass against his skin, the breeze on his face, and the slight dampness of the earth, beneath him.

He allows himself to relax, to close his eyes. He digs deep into his mind, dredging what he can from the murky waters of his own mind.

_He is eighteen._

_The trial has concluded. As he leaves the courtroom, his brother manages to escape police custody. It takes only a moment, mere minutes, for there to be severe consequences._

_There’s a flash of metal, handcuffs reflect the brutal sun of a Houston summer. The beating is severe. Broken facial bones, ribs, and collarbone. As he hits the ground, his brother is apprehended by the police._

_He lays on the ground, watching, with inhuman apathy, as his own blood soaks the sidewalk around him. People crowd around him, taking photos and video, pointing, gawking._

There is more to him, more to his past.

He knows it’s unpleasant. With every new memory, there’s a crash of emotion. He feels resentment, and he grieves for the life he had lived. Why was he the one to be brought back? What good could come from his revival?

 _He is nineteen._ _It has been three weeks since he woke from a medically induced coma._

_Above him stands a bald man, a doctor, with a distinctive mustache. He speaks with a British accent, and shines a flashlight in Dave’s eyes. “Yes,” he says, “You should be sufficiently recouperated to be discharged.”_

_Dave tells the man that he will leave Houston, that the city is cursed. He tells him he will wrap some things up, then depart, for Skaia._

Dave halts the memory with fervor.

There’s a sudden awareness of the situation, now. His murder wasn’t random. Scratch selected him, and he had unwittingly set his own demise in stone.

He realizes, now. He understands.

He sits up, his body now actively fighting the relaxing effect of the drug he had just ingested, and turns. Even from here, he can see the apartment building Karkat lives in. It stretches up, into the clouds, plunging into the sky, like a knife. Smoke is pouring from it, now. Something terrible has happened.

His heart pounds. He gathers his things, and begins to sprint to the nearest bus stop.

The whole way, he tries to reason with himself. Perhaps it’s just a regular fire, someone was careless with their cooking. Maybe it’s just thick construction dust. Karkat had said that there was a nearby unit under renovation.

Deep down, he knows none of this is true. Someone is out for Karkat.

Karkat, one of the few people in this world to show him any sort of kindness, is being threatened, and it’s his fault. If nothing else, he has to fix this.

He pulls out his burn phone and dials the only number in its contacts.

“You’ve reached Detective Karkat Vantas. I’m out right now, on extended leave. I’ll try to return your call as soon as I get the fuck around to it.”

Under his breath, Dave curses. He tries, again and again, to dial the number. Every time, it goes to voicemail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the gap in updates. I’m working on ideas and shit, so hopefully this gets back to regular updates.


	21. They’re dying to stop you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **14 April 2130:** Whenever I can’t take the stress, I go down to the beach. It’s useful as fuck, a great way to clear the head. It’s also a good place to consider the facts of a case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics are from Run Boy Run.

It’s not as if Karkat Vantas is a stranger to death. His father’s passing paved the way for an untold number more, often by his own hand. That doesn’t mean he enjoys it, nor does he feel wholly justified. By his own standards, a life is a life. It’s something that isn’t given freely and, by that token, it shouldn’t be taken wantonly. He has standards, and he’ll try his damndest to subdue attackers nonlethally. If nothing else, a dead witness is worthless.

These thoughts echo in his head as he huddles behind shrubbery in Kanaya’s darkened yard. His pistol is loaded, drawn, and aimed at a figure, silhouetted by the dim yellow glow of a decorative wrought-iron light, at the end of the walkway, which leads to Kanaya’s house.

He watches.

The figure holds a large weapon, which Karkat recognizes as a compact laser rifle. It’s a higher end model, fitted with night vision sights and automatic stabilizers. A small pack on its right side, about the size of a deck of playing cards, serves as its targeting system. A band around their shoulder matches the logo Karkat has seen in videos of Scratch, of MindScape Memorial.

“This is the place,” the figure says. “He wasn’t at his apartment, so he must be here.” There’s a pause, as if the individual is listening to a response. Then, more speech, “I understand. The target is the android.”

As the unknown intruder continues speaking, Karkat fires his weapon.

The shot hits the intruder’s shoulder, and the rifle falls to the ground. At the same time, they pull out a pistol, a high power energy blaster, and aim it in Karkat’s direction. When they speak aloud, their voice is masked by electronic distortion. “I don’t have to kill you, you know. No one has to get hurt. Give me the girl, and I’ll leave.”

Karkat doesn’t respond. Instead, he sinks deeper into the shadows.

“So, we’re playing chicken?” The pistol in the intruder’s hand fires.

The blast flies by, narrowly missing, and the static crackle of the charge rings in Karkat’s right ear. Still, he remains motionless. He readies his own gun. He aims.

Then, without much fanfare, the opponent drops to their knees.

In the darkness, it takes a bit of focus for Karkat see what happened. A knife is sticking out of the assailant’s neck, and their breath comes ragged and hoarse.

Behind them is the culprit.

Karkat finds that his savior is none other than Dave Strider.

“So, you’re back?” Karkat asks. He steps forward, glancing to the house. The scuffle wasn’t loud enough to wake anyone inside, and he figures that’s for the best.

By now, the attacker is dead. Karkat kneels down, removes the knife, and rolls the body over. He studies the face. Male, likely mid-thirties. A victim of pure happenstance, perhaps.

“You’re not safe,” Dave says, his voice unnervingly even.

“Oh, really?” quips Karkat. “Yeah, I didn’t fucking notice that little tidbit of information, Strider. Enlighten me again, while I note the details for reporting this dead body to the police.”

Dave shrugs. He buries his hands in his pockets, and turns his gaze away. The sight of blood seems to make him squeamish. “Look, I came back to warn you. I’d say that was pretty nice of me. ‘Sides, I thought you liked me.”

Karkat pauses. Admittedly, he does like Dave. He missed him, but he also resents the other man’s impulsive decision. “You ran like a fucking coward, Strider. It’s nice to see that you’re alive, and that Scratch hasn’t found your clueless ass, but that’s all I can say right now.”

“Scratch knew who I was. He was a doctor, a surgeon or something, and he was in charge of my care,” Dave blurts out.

Karkat freezes. “You knew Scratch?”

Dave frowns. The light behind his ear flashes blue. He sits on the ground, legs crossed, and combs his fingers through the dew-dusted blades of grass. “When I was younger, before I came here, my older brother went to jail. He was a real douchecanoe. Absolute bastard, doesn’t deserve the fire that cremated his worthless ass, y’know?” He avoids meeting Karkat’s gaze. “My testimony got him locked up, but he beat the living shit out of me after the trial. Scratch treated me.”

“Which means he picked you,” Karkat supplies. His free hand rubs against his stubble-covered chin, and a low growl of thought escapes him. “Why?”

“Fuck if I know, dude,” Dave frowns. “Rose was probably just a bonus catch. I guess I just have a talent for getting the people I care about absolutely fucked over, huh?”

Karkat avoids answering the question. Instead, he considers what’s been said. “Scratch’s father must have needed resilient people, and I’d say that you’d qualify as pretty fucking hearty.”

Dave nods. It’s slow and uncertain, but it’s an admission of some sort of acceptance. “Maybe. Don’t know. I just wanted to warn you. Seeing as they’re after Rose, though, I guess I ain’t leaving.”

“No, you’re not.” The words come out with more desperation that Karkat would have liked. “I hate to say it—absolutely loathe to just admit it—but I fucking missed you.”

“Honestly? Same.” A small smile crosses Dave’s face. “I guess we should go back inside.”

“You go back in, I’ll clean up this mess. Kanaya doesn’t deserve to wake up to a rigor mortis ridden corpse in her front lawn.” Karkat shows Dave away, watching as the man retreats. Then, he sets about cleaning up the scene of the attack.

 

In the early hours of the morning, not too long after he’s done making the yard look presentable, Karkat catches an automated cab. He lets it drive him to the nearby sound. The sun has only just begun to rise, and its golden orange light tickles the surface of the water. It reflects brilliantly, dancing, carefree. He buries his hands in the pockets of his pants, and removed his shoes. As the waves lap at the sandy shores, he steps forward, allowing the waves to sweep by. He closes his eyes.

What has he gotten himself into?

His phone rings. When he answers, the message is relayed directly to his ears. The lisping voice is unmistakeable. “Hey, KK, I’ve got some bad news.”

“What?” Karkat frowns.

“Some assholes broke into your apartment last night. Set it on fire. Most of the living room’s a write off.”

A low growl escapes Karkat. He shakes his head, as if it will make the words he’s just heard less true; it doesn’t. “You’re shitting me.”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“Okay. Well, give Kanaya a call and let her know that we’re making an unceremonious stop at her place for an indefinite amount of time.”

“On the case, KK,” Sollux concludes.

The phone goes silent.

Karkat does what he always does to distract himself. He extracts his feet from the muddy sand and sits on the shore. From his pocket, he pulls his projection cube, and displays the facts of the case in front of him. He reviews the notes he’s gathered on Scratch, and all the possible murders he’s linked to the man. Sixty-three. There are sixty-three cases, all of which are probably connected.

He has the evidence, but he needs a motive. And, even then, he’ll be at a loss, unless the younger Scratch has a track record of crimes, too. Simply producing illegal android hybrids isn’t nearly enough to get him incarcerated, not if the government is involved. There will need to be more, something far more heinous than fulfilling a longstanding government need for immortality.

A ship’s horn moans through the early morning haze. Against the horizon is a thin veil of smoky brown fog. The rusted steel remnants of an old skyscraper juts from the ocean. These scenes draw Karkat’s attention, and he considers their meaning.

Long ago, or, rather, a century ago, people lived lives not too different from today. What would drive them to want immortality? Probably the same thing that drives the desire now.

A long sigh escapes Karkat. He folds his hands behind his head and leans back, laying against the sand. He watches the clouds pass by, soft, slow, and unfettered by the problems below. He closes his eyes and feels the warmth of the morning sun against his skin. It’s still early, and crowds haven’t gathered, not yet. He has the beach mostly to himself, and he revels in the relative silence.

If he concentrates, he can filter out the clanging of nearby industrial activity. The sounds of rapid oceanic transport vessels fizzles out, and he listens, instead, to the peaceful crash of waves. And, as he does this, a thought comes to him. He opens his eyes once more, and gestures to open a new search.

He pulls up the page for Scratch Sr., and is struck by one detail: he has no romantic history. There is no mention of wives, but his son is listed as a descendant. More intriguingly, Scratch’s son was born when the man was in his late eighties.

Aside from the unpleasant implications, should the conception be natural, it raises the issue of legitimacy. There’s no doubt that the two Scratches are related; they’re nearly identical. There remains, however, the issue of who served as a mother.

Another, more disturbing possibility crosses Karkat’s mind, too. He files it away, considering it a throwaway theory, but something deep within him tries him not to discount it entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around through my dumb, spottynupdates! Here’s some plot!


	22. A thousand light years away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **15 April 2130:** How far is too far for you to go for someone you love?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaay. Got a little inspiration for a new chapter. Still no real update schedule, but I’m glad so many people are liking this weird little fic. The title is from the song of the same name, from Slime Rancher.

“You know what?” Karkat leans back in the bare-bones barstool. His free hand rakes through his hair, doing nothing to tame it, but doing a small bit of good for his nerves. “I think that I’ve figured something out.”

“Well, you’re a detective. That’s sort of your damned job description,” Dave shrugs. The shadows beneath his eyes are dark; they have been since he returned. “What is it?”

“You and Rose couldn’t have been the only ones. There were thousands of uploaded minds, all of them absolutely prodded to hell and back, at the hands of some clusterfuck brained madmen, driven by profit.” Karkat scratches the end of his pen against the open page of his notebook. “Scratch could have been one of them.”

“Maybe.” Dave shrugs. “Who knows what’s up with that enigmatic cue ball bastard?” He shoves his hand into a crinkling bag of chips. He shovels a handful into his mouth. “Why care? I thought you dropped it, like the hottest chili-stuffed pepper.”

Now, Karkat shrugs. He eyes the bag of chips, trying to silently communicate his desire for a few. “I guess I did, I’m just wondering.”

Dave graciously offers the bag in his direction before staring at the ceiling. Above, against a pure white ceiling, a fly buzzes about. It circles aimlessly, free of an sort of worldly concerns beyond its immediate bodily wants.

He seems to think, quite seriously, too, about something. Then, without provocation, he speaks of his past. His voice is unnervingly flat, as if the things he says are of little importance. “When I finished the trial, Bro beat me to near death, y’know. Like, it took me weeks to walk again, at least without some heavy artilery level support. I don’t remember much ‘bout it all, but it was... uh... it was something.”

Karkat, in return, finds that he has no words to say, no means of providing comfort. He feels out of place, as if he’s just witness something he was never meant to see.

Yet, Dave continues. “I don’t think I ever really recovered, to be real. I mean... I healed up, sure, but the last few months of my life were... I don’t think I was really _me_. Does that make sense? I was there, sure. I was yukking it the fuck up, living life and all that shit. Grab the bull by the horns, right? But it was like... It hurt to do most shit. Who knows if I got put back together the right way. There ain’t a manual for putting back together people, so...” Dave shrugs. He reaches out, grabs onto his bottle of beer, and takes a hearty gulp.

Karkat’s brows furrow. He struggles with his own conscience, grappling with a need to be perfect, to find the perfect thing to say. Ultimately, he lets himself loose. His thoughts, unmoored from the silence of his mind, pour from his mouth. “I don’t know what the fuck you’d even expect me to say to this sort of shit, Strider.” He rubs his chin, feeling his own prickly morning stubble. “Your life was absolutely and insanely fucked up. Really. And I’m sorry about that. I probably sound like a conceited bastard, but I really am sorry you had to live through all that shit. But, it seems like it made you the perfect candidate for Scratch. You were mentally resilient, in some way, to survive it all.”

“Was I, now?” Dave quirks his brow. He prepares to take another sip of beer, only to freeze halfway through this action. The light behind his ear pulses an angry red. When he speaks, his words are muffled. “Fuck. That hurts.”

“What?” The word is spoken a fraction of a second too soon.

Dave grabs frantically at his chest, his inhuman, augmented strength easily tearing through the thin fabric of Karkat’s loaned undershirt. His breathing grows ragged; his hands shake. Then, he speaks, his voice clearly not his own.

“I see you’re still interested in pursuing the case. Know that I have the capability to stop Dave’s heart, at any moment, and you will certainly see every minute of it.” The voice belongs to Scratch, and isn’t presumably being broadcast from elsewhere. When it ends, Dave falls back, to the floor.

Karkat scrambles, kneeling down over Dave.

Breathing is ragged, and the port in his chest shows that his heart’s beat isn’t slow. When Karkat removes the man’s shades, he finds that his eyes are wide.

“Let me die.”

Karkat pauses. He stammers, his brows furrowing, “I’m sorry, what?”

Dave reaches out. His hands grip Karkat’s collar, the force of his hold undeniable. He repeats himself, more clearly, this time. “Let me. Die.”

“Why the fuck would I do that?” Karkat growls. He studies the port on Dave’s chest, but he finds no means of opening it.

“Warning. Cardiac error, unable to reboot heart.” Dave’s voice has returned to the purely dispassionate tone of a status message. Then, after a burst of static, Scratch’s voice continues. “If you wish to cooperate with me, I will be more than happy to allow this abomination to continue living. Trade me the girl for Dave’s life.”

Karkat shakes his head He intentionally ignores the message, and begins resuscitation efforts. He presses the heels of his palms to Dave’s chest. “Come on, you bastard, there’s has to be more to you than what she programmed.”

“Oh, is that what you believe?” Scratch taunts.

Dave’s heartbeat slows even further. His breathing turns to hoarse, agonal gasps.

“His lungs have now been deactivated. Every essential part of this experiment is used my control.” Scratch laughs.

Karkat continues his efforts. He thinks of calling Rose and Kanaya, only to realize that they’re not around. Both of them left earlier this morning, to investigate Scratch.

From the static-laden relay, the doctor offers a heartless chuckle. The tone of his voice makes it obvious that he’s smiling. “I’m certain your arm isn’t appreciating this exertion.”

“Shut up,” snaps Karkat.

“Give me the girl, and I’ll let this wretched thing live.”

Karkat, by now, is desperate. He’s willing to do anything to keep Dave alive, to show him that the world isn’t all bad. If he has to lie to do so, then so be it. “FINE! Now, stop this bullshit!”

“Thank you, Mr. Shaan. I look forward to the delivery.” Another pop of static.

Dave gasps. His heartbeat begins to return to normal. His breathing evens out.

“Dave?”

“I’m... Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why am I still alive?” Dave presses his hands against his eyes. He coughs. “God, I... I guess I should thank you, but... Whatever. I...” He staggers to his feet, and grabs his beer. He chugs.

“Talk to me, Strider,” Karkat implores.

The other man shakes his head. “No. Please don’t make me do that.” He offers a bitter chortle. “I can’t even handle myself in my own fuckin’ head, don’t you dare ask me to speak it.”

“Just try to, you dumbass,” Karkat says, more demanding, now. “You’re safe, here. I promise.”

“Am I, now?” Dave avoids Karkat’s gaze. “Scratch owns me. I’m a meat puppet, _Detective_ ,” there’s venom in his voice. He spits out the word, like a curse. “I’m alive because Scratch wants me to be. He uses me to spy on you, and that’s all i l’ll ever be. A surveillance tool.”

“I love you,” Karkat stammers, his emotions grabbing hold of him. “Dammit, Dave, you bastard. You don’t... There’s a whole world out there, and it’s not all doom and gloom. You can live the life you wanted to, fulfill your dreams. Everything you lost when you died? You have a new chance. Take it.”

“And why should I? I’ll just die again, a footnote. Note A, some clueless pisser died today. He was a disaster experiment, no meaning at all.”

Karkat finds himself carding his hands through his hair. He shakes his head, and forgoes years of training. His heart takes over. He reaches forward, gently holding Dave’s face in his hands, even as the man refuses to look at him. “Strider, I want to show you how much this godawful world can offer you. I’ve already thrown my life into a gaping chasm of denial, but I don’t want you to. Fuck if I’ll watch you flush yourself down the drain, like I have.”

“And why would I matter to you?” Dave asks, cynical.

The words rise from deep within Karkat, bursting forth with a violent energy, like an eruption. “ _Because I love you_. God. You’re...” He leans forward, and finds his lips meeting Dave’s. There’s a softness, a warmth, that overcomes his body.

Dave, too, melts in his hands. The gesture is reciprocated.

Then, as suddenly as it began, it ends. Dave breaks away, shaking his head. “No,” he breathes, “I can’t do this. Not until I know how to keep Scratch out of my head.”

“Wait...” Karkat pleads.

Dave, albeit clearly remorseful, staggers away. He locks himself in the guest bedroom, leaving Karkat to stand, alone, in the living room.


	23. I set fire to my memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **16 April 2130:** I've found some information on the burial. Rose and Dave's. Apparently, it wasn't really a big affair. Hell, it wasn't even much of a fucking burial, but it was something. I figure it has to have some information...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the title for this chapter comes from edith piaf's [non, je ne regrette rien](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gsz7IuZ3paM).

Dave Strider wakes in the guest room of Kanaya’s home. Breathing hurts, moving is agony. Still, he staggers to his feet. His balance is questionable, but he manages to stagger into the living room. There, he finds Rose.

She sits on the sofa, her back to him, and knits what appears to be the fair beginnings of a sweater. When he approaches, she turns. “Oh. Glad you’re awake, Dave.”

“How are you so damn calm about all this? We’re stuck in a raging whirlwind of absolute bullshit, and you’re just as cool as a frozen cucumber.” Dave shakes his head. “How?”

“I have disabled any extraneous programming,” Rose explains. The clacking of her knitting needles is rhythmic, calming, almost. “It's impossible to track my movements, and it's an equally fruitless endeavor to attempt controlling them. I am my own person, just as you are yours.”

Dave's brows furrow. “That don't make a bit of sense, you enigmatic bitch,” he snaps. He stumbles forward, his limbs uncooperative, and collapses on the ground, just short of the sofa. When Rose looks to him, with a look of concern, he shakes his head. Instead, he scrambles to right himself. His hands can't get a solid grip on the ground, and his legs seem to operate on a different frequency than the rest of his body. Eventually, he gives up. He drags himself to the sofa, and leans his back against the side. “What does that  _mean_ , dammit?”

“It means that you don't understand yourself, David.”

“Don't call me that.”

“I'm only trying to help you,” Rose tuts. Her gaze never strays from her work, and her knitting continues at a steady, rapid pace. It's a ritual, a cycle, that can't be broken. “I am myself, as you are your own person. I can't tell you how to solve your own problems, only that you must do so in order to release yourself from the tethers of your preprogrammed controls. Understand, first, who you are; then, comprehend what it means.”

The tips of Dave's fingers tingle, as if a massive amount of static electricity has built up, within him. Slowly, he begins to regain control over his own body. He stretches his arms over his head. “I don't understand any of this cryptic shit, Rose. Just tell me what I have to do, and I'll do it.”

“I've already told you.” There's a strained silence. Then, a tut. Rose sighs. “How much do you remember?”

“Remember of what?”

“Who you were.”

Dave shakes his head. His body shudders. He finds his hands covering his face. “I don't want to remember  _any_ of it, dammit. I don't want to be that person.”

“Well, it's who you are.” The response is blunt. It's simply Rose's nature to avoid sugar-coating an issue. What needs to be said will be said, and she will do so in the way that best suits her, not the situation. “The programming Scratch used had an error, and it prioritizes sentience over obedience. If you want to eschew his control, you need to accept your own past. Now, I'm trying to concentrate on this. It's a gift for Kanaya. Please leave me alone.”

After a few tries, Dave rises to his feet. He sighs, and tangles his fingers in his hair. “Where's Karkat? Kanaya?”

“Karkat left early this morning, I'm not sure where he went. Kanaya went to pick up groceries.”

A nod and a wave serve as Dave's response. He trudges off, to the kitchen, and prepares himself some semblance of a breakfast.

* * *

**16 April 2130**  
Pauper's Resting Grounds  
203 Rolling Knolls Ln  
**Western Skaia City Limits**

Karkat Vantas stares at the paper map in his hand. He compares the location of various important graves, tracing a winding path through the dried grass of the cemetery. Eventually, he stops. Before him are two flat plaques, both nondescript, inscribed with the names of Dave and Rose.

He kneels down and begins to peel away the overgrowth, until the heavily worn metal plates are visible. He reaches out, and pries the plug at the top of each grave free. Flipping them over reveals a vase, and he places a singular white rose into both before replacing them. Once this is done, he places his hands against the earth. It's cold and wet beneath his grasp, despite the visible yellowing of the field. Mud clings to his skin, and small bugs crawl over his hands. Still, he remains.

He wonders if, somewhere, deep below the earth, Dave's original body is there. Rose's likely would be, too.

After several minutes, he exhales. He sits back, and leans against an old stone grave marker. His eyes slide closed. The sun is warm, today. It's a rare day, one where it isn't too hot. There hasn't been much rain for the past few days and, though that means it will certainly flood when the next rains come, it's nice. There's a calmness to the world around him, a stillness, that he's rarely known. Birds fly overhead, chirping, softly. Leaves rustle. There's no one else here. Pauper's Resting Grounds was abandoned long ago, deemed an obsolete cemetery. No one alive has any relations to its occupants, at least, none that they'd like to recognize.

He reaches into his pocket, and pulls out his phone. He dials Dave's number, then sets the device down, in the grass, so that the resultant hologram is in front of him. Holding a button on his watch allows him to draw a viewing area for Dave, which he centers on himself.

After the third ring, Dave fades into view. His image falters, flickering, perhaps due to the distance between Karkat and the nearest phone tower. He looks bedraggled. His hair, normally well groomed, is messy; shadows hang beneath his eyes. “Hey,” he yawns.

Karkat, in spite of himself, smiles. After the events of yesterday, it's nice to see that Dave is still around.

“Where are you?”

“I'm at a cemetery. Found where you were buried, so I thought something interest could be here. Serves my ass right, I guess. There's not a modicum of anything remotely useful here.” Karkat manages a small chuckle, though he's aware that he's doing a poor job of masking how tired he is.

Dave, now, pauses. A look of realization crosses his face, immediately followed by nothing short of terror. “I was never buried.”

“Then...”

“I'm guessin’ it's a decoy.” Dave shrugs. “Look, can we talk?”

“I don't see any fucking reason not to. And, even if I said ‘no’, that sure wouldn't stop your incessant blabbering, would it?” Karkat smirks.

Dave, too, responds with a weary smile. “Nah. It wouldn't. So, uh... Rose was saying something about sentience. A whole load of lofty bullshit, flew right over my head.”

“Kanaya says she does that a lot, yeah,” Karkat hums. The air soothes his frayed nerves, and he finds himself sinking into the soft ground. It's not like quicksand; rather, it's like falling asleep. The earth cradles him, conforming to his shape, and yields, in return, unparalleled comfort. “What're you saying, though?”

“I just...” Dave looks away from the camera. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his shades, and slips them on. “I think... I've been remembering more about my life. Before I ended up here, at least. And, I mean, it ain't pretty.” A bitter laugh punctuates the statement. “I'm fucked up. Hell, therapists would be clawing down my door to find me, if they knew what sort of shit I went through.” His pupils expand, revealing pinpricks of red light. Karkat has no way of knowing why this is, or what it means. The room he's in isn't dark, so it seems it wouldn't be a natural process. “I just need to talk ‘bout it, I guess.”

“Well, I guess I'm the unlucky dolt, huh?” Karkat settles into his spot even more, preparing himself for Dave's story.

“Yeah...” Dave continues to refuse looking at the camera. Instead, he stares up, at the ceiling. From what Karkat knows of the layout of Kanaya's home, he's looking at the slowly rotating ceiling fan, in the guest room. “I remember it all, now. Everything. Maybe it's just because my brain's been synthesized to hell and back, but nothing is out of bounds, now. Not even if I wanted it to be. And, damn, do I wish it all was.”

There's a thoughtful pause, during which Karkat braces himself. He knows what he's about to hear will be bad but he isn't fully aware of just how bad it will be.

“Honestly, I shouldn't be alive. I got so many damned beatings, I should've been a theoretical coma patient by ten. Life was hell.” There's a strangled sound, like a sob, from Dave's end. In his heart, Karkat wishes he was there, beside Dave. He wishes he could hold him in his arms, to tell him that the world, now, is so much better. It  _will_ be. It has to be. “When I was five, a social worker came to check on me. I didn't know better. Bro told me to kill him, so I did. I led him to my room, and stabbed him, until he didn't move anymore. I never got in trouble for that. I guess I won't, now. But, sometimes, I wonder, y'know? They never found him. I don't know where Bro buried him. Did he have a family? Kids?”

“It wasn't your fault,” Karkat reassures.

Dave ignores the commentary. His pupils widen further, and a low buzz comes into being. “Really, I wasn't that great of a person. I picked fights, I acted like tough shit. I thought nothing would kill me, least of all Bro. I don't think I ever really... I never made friends, not until now. Ain't that wild? It took me being literally dead to actually make some friends. That's got to be some sort of morbid world record.” The humming intensifies. “I don't...”

“Dave?”

“It's like... No one understood me, and I sure as fuck didn't understand myself. Fuck whatever anyone said, right? I never needed help, and I was perfectly fine. Throwing yourself at the same dangerous shit, knowing every time that you'd probably die? That was normal. It ain't a death wish. It's just what goddamned everyone does.” The longer Dave speaks, the louder the hum grows. It's a low, droning sound, which seems to resonate from Dave. “And, hey, I get if all of this changes how you feel about me. It changed how I felt about myself. Every time I got a new memory, it was like stabbing myself in the face. Shit's weird, and...” There's a loud pop. The red glow at the center of Dave's pupils flashes. Once. Twice. Then, it turns green.

A dispassionate voice comes forth, indicative of an error message. “Sentience levels have reached maximum levels. Control of unit is being transferred.”

Karkat, stunned, watches the projection before him.

Dave staggers back, swaying uncertainly. The light behind his ear flickers, then, it goes out. He collapses.

Karkat, his heart pounding harder than it ever had before, gathers his things. He rushes to his car. By now, the revelation of the empty grave has been forgotten. Now, all he can hear is blood flowing through his head, rushing from his heart. His focus is on Dave.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! as always, comments and feedback are always welcome. you can find me at my [dumbass blog](godtiermeme.tumblr.com).


End file.
